


Martin’s Web

by StripestheBoar



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Arachnophobia, Basically me retelling the entire plot of TMA, But with Web Martin, Characters to be added later as they are introduced, Eventual Romance, Insects, M/M, Spiders, Web Avatar Martin, Web!Martin, Worms, implied child neglect, just major events in Martin’s life that changed him, tags to be added later, won’t go through every plot point
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:15:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 57,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26539438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StripestheBoar/pseuds/StripestheBoar
Summary: “I know what you are, Martin.”Creeping. Crawling. Eyes that scuttled over his skin like hundreds of tiny legs exploring and demanding more. He knew this feeling well. He was being scrutinized, but for what?“I’m not sure I follow, sir.”Elias’ smile did not dissipate from the cool and collected visage that screamed of seeing him (evaluating him (testing him (knowing him))). “No, I suppose you don’t,” he replied simply, going back to signing the document his employee had handed off. “You’re not in trouble, Martin, believe me. Just...” Those eyes flicked up to keep Martin still. Something inside the assistant reeled back at the sight.“Just you keep your area clear of webs. Jonathan isn’t quite fond of spiders, I’ll have you know.”A story in which a Watcher grows fond of a Weaver.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 106
Kudos: 282





	1. Charlotte’s Web

**Author's Note:**

> Ey hey, boyos. New to the scene. Fell in love with Web Martin. Here’s my fanfiction of Martin and some spiders. Expect this to be long.

_ “Where is the object which does not become beautiful when seen through the medium of intelligent enquiry?” _

_ ~ Reverend Octavius Pickard-Cambridge on the subject of spiders (1879) _

As a child, Martin Blackwood’s favorite book was Charlotte’s Web by E. B. White. 

He hadn’t been a child who was particularly fond of books, as his mother had never thought it important to read to him as a child. Thus, he’d always been a bit behind when it came to his literature classes and less interested in the novels he would be handed as a child. Fiction just didn’t suit his fancy. Poetry was more his thing, letting out his feelings and expressions in an odd language only he could understand, but even then he had a hard time focusing on an entire poetry book when most of its contents were fictionalized. He would rather spend time with friends and socialize than be holed up with a book (then why was he so lonely?). And yet, when he’d been handed the book one day by a relative at the age of nine, he fell in love. Sure, it took him a good week to get past the first twenty-five pages, but he’d soon found himself engrossed in the story of Wilbur, Fern, and the titular Charlotte. He found himself relating to Fern, and he quite liked Charlotte’s almost motherly disposition. While the book only provided a small distraction from the school work and his boredom from a lack of any regular friends, it was always remembered as the event that began Martin’s love for spiders.

Spiders like Charlotte weren’t scary in the slightest; if anything, they were rather cute. Those beady little eyes and the way they skittered here and there. He especially loved the ones where the eyes dwarfed the little things’ heads. They were part of the ecosystem and helped get rid of pests, as he learned after some looking on his mum’s computer. While yes, they did bite, they are only trying to defend themselves; people shouldn’t be trying to mess with spiders in the first place, in his opinion. What was there to be afraid of? 

While obviously he didn’t believe that he would start seeing words intricately woven into webs, he was quite fond of the idea of using what God had gifted one to influence people into doing good, even if it was just a little nudge in the right direction. It wasn’t pure control, per se, just… a point in the right direction. Perhaps such a thing could finally get him some friends to spend his alone time with.

Some may call it coincidence that the book was read just a week before he found the egg sac, others may call it fate. If this was the doing of the Web nudging him along before the Lonely could spot him, no one could really say. The only thing Martin knew was that he poked an egg sac one day and immediately regretted it.

In his defense, he had never seen a spider’s egg sac before. Spiders didn’t get into his mother’s flat all too often, and when they did, his mum was usually quick to smear them across the wall before a proper web could ever be built. He’d seen webs, of course, but nothing quite like the one he’d found when he had accidentally lost his football underneath a neighbor’s porch. 

The old man had been understanding, even accommodating him with a torch for when he crawled under to retrieve it. His mum didn’t get him toys often, after all, and so he was determined to get it back in spite of having to wiggle on the ground for it.

The shine of the football under the torch’s light was what revealed the cobweb at its side, so close that it was a miracle the ball hadn't destroyed the silk home. While disinterested at first, it wasn’t until he’d finally reached the ball and begun to drag it out that he had noticed what was entangled in the threads. The web itself was huge, most likely having belonged to a beast of an insect, bringing a shiver of fear from whatever monstrosity could have spun it. The intricacy of the web was astonishing; the threads were so scattered and yet they created a weave so  _ intelligently  _ complex that one could stare for hours and still not comprehend the scale of its brilliant design. It was made with care and  _ knowing _ , as odd as that may sound. It was beautiful.

The focus of his attention, however, was on what the web cradled in the center, Its silk threads acting as the crib for something far more valuable than itself. The first thing he’d thought of when he saw the sphere of silk was a cotton ball. It was around the size of a golf ball, suspended by hundreds of interconnecting threads that clung to the wooden supports. He imagined it quite like a rather comfortable hammock for spiders. There was no arachnid to be seen, however, and Martin simply assumed that the web had been long since abandoned and the ball of silk threads was merely the vestige of a meal. A particularly large roach, he guessed, given the size. Good; he wasn’t a fan of roaches. He didn’t quite like how they skittered and clung to filth.

Martin didn’t really know what compelled him to poke it. Was it the beauty he had seen in the web? Perhaps he simply wanted to see if it was as dense as it looked. So with only a minute trace of hesitation, he lifted his torch and gave the ball of threads a light nudge.

His eyes grew the size of tea plates when there was a twitch in the sac, something inside clearly moving, but he initially couldn’t tell if it was a trick of the light. There was a flicker of blackness in his vision, and before Martin could witness any more of the web’s strange movements, he was submerged in complete darkness after his torch gave out. “Bloody thing,” he’d murmured, bumping it on the ground to try and see if he could get the light to flicker back on, even if just for a moment; he at least needed it to get out from under the porch. In the back of his mind, he could hear something tearing ( _ feel  _ something tearing ( _ threads were snapping, breaking that which was awaiting _ )), but discarded it from his mind as he reached for his ball once more.

Then there were legs.

Dozen. Hundreds. Skittering. Exploring. Scrutinizing (they see me). His grip tightened on the torch so tightly, he felt as if it would shatter in his hand. Legs thinner than the silk that once bound them eagerly made their way up his arm, excited to get out into the world and grow after having just been birthed. Hungry. Searching.  _ Needing _ (they want me ( _ they need me _ )).

The legs were countless. He could feel bits of silk already sticking to him as the countless spiders attempted to climb over him and balloon out. 

That human urge of disgust to frantically brush over his arms in hopes of killing them all was strong, dipping into overpowering as he felt a couple of younglings find their way up his neck and onto his face and skittering over his cheeks. Martin’s breathing was ragged, his body trembling and eyes wide in terror as he felt one scuttle over his lips like a curious child exploring a new environment, taking away his right to even scream. His fear brought tears to his eyes; he’d never felt such chilling terror in his life like then. A whine rose from his throat as his body took in every leg that touched his skin (it should have been impossible to focus on each one at the same time ( _ they were many and yet one _ )), and he swore he would have been able to count each one that landed if only he tried.

And yet he didn’t kill them, even if the urge squeezed his heart to the point of collapsing in on itself. He couldn’t bring himself to kill anything on purpose; he felt horrified of himself whenever he accidentally stepped on a snail after the rain. He couldn’t kill spiders, much less baby spiders. They were just trying to get out into the world, and he just happened to be near their nest at the, without a doubt, most inconvenient of times. Even as the torch finally flickered back on, allowing him to clearly see the three that had decided to stay on his hands, he could only let out a terrified whimper as tears began to fall. They were big, their bodies still pale from having recently been birthed, and Martin knew whatever had laid these eggs was a monster he didn’t want to meet. Their tiny eyes were like black pools of petrol, and yet they twinkled in the light with this odd look that Martin couldn’t quite describe. For some odd reason, he could only think to say that the gleam was one of curiosity and hunger. Of  _ knowing _ , like they were aware of something Martin was not. He didn’t understand his own thoughts behind it, but it was all he could think (all he could believe ( _ they won’t stop looking at him  _ ( **_they won’t stop knowing him_ ** ))).

Without a word, Martin forgot about his football, instead slowly and carefully wiggling backwards and to the open area of the porch. Escape was so far, but he moved at a snail's pace so as to not alarm the spiders and send them scuttling all over his body once more. It was for his sake and theirs.

If it wasn’t for the spider still resting on his mouth, he would have cried with relief when his skin was hit by the dimmed sun of a cloudy day. Crying and shaking, he stood, and he was quickly rewarded with the sight of spiders ballooning off of his body and letting the wind take them into the open air, where they would find their future homes somewhere in the vastness of his world (goodbye ( _ goodbye  _ ( **_goodbye_ ** ))). Even the one that had jailed his lips had given him mercy, and with that he cried out a single sob of relief at the release from his terror.

The next ten minutes was spent trying to press up against walls and getting the rest of the spiders to crawl off. There had been less that he had expected; a good sixty or so compared to the hundreds his brain had jumped to initially. Even still, sixty spiders crawling on his body were still spiders crawling on his body. By the time Martin thought he had gotten the last one off of him, he was relatively calm. He still had the streaks of tears down his cheeks, but he was rather proud of himself for not going ballistic and smashing all the spiders, even if he was ashamed for having cried whilst it happened. He felt like he did good for the ecosystem. That being said, upon thinking about what he had just gone through, he took a moment to pause and vomit on the ground, letting out all that pent up terror in a fear-induced oral waterfall.

He had left the football underneath the porch, but honestly? That thing could deflate under there for all he cared. His mum would be rather cross with him if he told her, but she never asked, so he didn’t think she would say anything; she was too busy with work and the like and didn’t have much time for him. All he really wanted to do right now was crawl into bed and stay until the weekend ended. 

With that in mind, he placed the torch on the old man’s steps and trotted back home, not noticing the tiny creature that still clung to the back of his shirt.

* * *

Martin wasn’t a very observant child. Often he found himself on the receiving end of jokes he didn’t quite understand. If he didn’t know something was out of place, he wouldn’t look for it. Besides, how often does one find themselves looking up at the ceiling corner of their own room? So forgive him when it took an entire month for him to look above his door one day and realize that there was a dark shape contrasting starkly against the white walls of his room. He stared, jaw dropped some in shock when he saw just how much of a monster the creature was. Its abdomen was swollen and heavy from a full meal, the blacks and beiges making a small zig zag pattern across its body. It had to be the length of his shoe, the front and back angular legs stretching twice— no,  _ thrice  _ as big. He’d never seen a spider that size before, and oh how is strained against the rapid thumping of his heart. He stared at the spider in awe of its design more than the utter terror he had experienced before, and he knew the spider was staring back, watching him.

Beneath those swirling puddles of black hunger, there was a twinkle in its eyes— that hint of knowing and curiosity that burned itself into his mind. He felt as though it knew him somehow; that it understood Martin as what he was, and not simply the human that shared its home. This was how Martin knew it was one of the spiders he had got to intimately know the month before. It followed him back to his home (its home ( _ our home _ )) somehow, and that fact was not up for debate. 

What was he to do about it? Telling his mum was a dud because not only did she not care, but she would most definitely kill it if she walked into his room (something she hadn’t done in a good few months ( **_bitch_ ** )). He swallowed thickly, already picturing the disaster that would be trying to pull down a spider of that size to release it; he no doubt looked like a pretty big threat to the small eyes of the spider, and the only sin it was committing was simply trying to survive in a world dominated by humans. In the end, it was decided by Martin (or was it the spider?) that he would be having a new roommate. It wasn’t like the spider was going to crawl from its cozy corner for a nibble on his skin, and if the spider had no problem with Martin, Martin had no problem with the spider. Live and let live, as they say.

Martin slowly sat on the bed, continuing to stare before realizing he must have seemed rather rude, as absurd as the feeling was. “Sorry,” he spoke aloud, waving to the spider out of sheer politeness. It was simply his nature. “I’m Martin. I live here with my mum. Don’t let her see you, okay? She doesn’t like spiders.”

If the spider understood, it made no show of it. Martin was silent, idly kicking his legs on the side of the bed. It was peculiar, having a spider watching over him, but he found that he strangely didn’t mind. “Would you be okay with me naming you?” he inquired softly, already coming up with the perfect title. A beat passed. “I think I’m going to name you Charlotte.” Another moment passed before the spider shifted some in its web, but that was about all the approval he needed. “Charlotte it is then.” He gave Charlotte and awkward thumbs up before navigating the house to find the computer he and his mother shared. “How long do spiders live?” was the first thing he typed into the search engine. He didn’t mind his new friend, but he wouldn’t exactly cry if she moved out anytime soon.

* * *

In the month that followed, Martin grew more comfortable with his roommate. Once Charlotte grew more, her features became distinct enough to allow for identification. Charlotte was a giant house spider (which took Martin a good five minutes of searching to find out that it was the real name), and one could only imagine the way his brow shot up to his hairline upon seeing how big they could grow. For most, it would be a terrifying sight, but Martin was thankful he didn’t get as many flies or roaches invading his room as per usual. Every so often Martin would find a bug himself and, with the help of a stepping stool and blind faith that throwing a roach into the air wouldn’t return to haunt him, he would feed Charlotte himself. Her abdomen was constantly dwarfing her thorax, swelled but never taking away from that gleam of knowing and hunger that glazed her eight black orbs.

Martin’s mother had never come in to see it, mostly because she never came in at all. She never asked about the missing football (as much as he loved Charlotte, the thought of going back under the porch haunted his nightmares), and she hardly kept up any conversations in general, always saying she was too tired. Martin was afraid she was becoming ill and always made sure to be at her side whenever she needed it. Her cooking was still as lovely as always, and he was thankful whenever she decided to make tea because it would allow him to go up to his room and have a small chat with Charlotte. He knew she didn’t talk back, but it felt nice to be able to have someone who listened (even if they may never understand ( _ he knew she understood _ )), and that gleam always had a small part of him feeling less lonely. It was as if the spider knew itself to be company to a young boy and did not mind. He liked Charlotte, and he sure she liked him back, even if the notion would be ridiculous to most.

In the month that followed, Martin found his tenth birthday arriving faster than he had anticipated. He woke up the morning of his special day to find that his mother had baked him a cherry pie. His mum was far more sociable with him on this day, cooking him a special dinner and letting him ramble on about whatever was on his mind without interrupting, as was the usual happening. She even engaged back, and every so often, he would see a smile grace her lips. It was his birthday, and he enjoyed each moment he got to spend with her. Charlotte was forgotten that day, as Martin got to spend time with a friend he rarely got to see.

His second and last gift was found on the coffee table in the main room. When he noticed it was a book, his hopes for something engaging was dashed. Charlotte’s Web had been a good book and all, but that was an outlier in a sea of disinterest. That was up until he actually grabbed the book out of politeness and took a look at the cover.  _ Spiders of the World: A Guide to Every Family _ was the title, much to his surprise. It was a hefty book, having to be at least a couple hundred pages, and it was no small size. Still registering how he should feel about the book, he gazed over at his mother, who offered a small smile and a shrug. “I saw you were looking up spiders quite a bit on the computer. Thought you would like it.”

And like it Martin did, unable to stop a smile from splitting his visage as he flipped through the pages. “I love it,” he told her, looking up with eyes gleamed with gratitude. “Thank you, mum!”

That evening, he spent all day with the book, mostly looking for the family Charlotte was situated in. The book was fascinating, showing arachnids of every size, shape, and color. When had he gotten so enamoured by spiders? It was a thought that passed his mind only briefly. He just chalked it up to the creatures being pretty cool. Their beauty was unmatchable; his feelings needed to be expressed somehow. 

He had gotten out his poetry notebook, feeling something deep inside that needed to be expressed.

Fishing for his pen, he looked to Charlotte, considering her for some moments, using her for inspiration. Without even thinking of what to write, his pen touched the page and began to scrawl his feelings. “I don’t think I’ll finish it tonight,” he spoke aloud to Charlotte. “But when I do, I’ll be sure to read it to you, okay? You’re gonna love it.”

The spider watched on, with Martin sure that there wasn’t a hint of disinterest to be found.

* * *

He wasn’t sure when he had woken up; part of him had believed that the heavy steps of thin legs against his cheek was merely a part of some absurd dream he was having. He could only see the ever expanding blackness, and it wasn’t until he tried to move his hand to rub his eyes that he realized his hands were stuck together. Something strong and kept them bound, its texture like thousands of tiny fibers that clung to his skin and kept his arms from pulling away from one another. It was plastered all over his inner arms, leaving his skin feeling like it had welded permanently onto itself (please stop ( _ please stay still _ )).

Martin’s breathing hitched when he finally noticed the shift of weight on his cheek, kept stable by how the boy had slept on his side. He moved his head some to look up, but found he couldn’t open his eyes. Eyelids glued together (I can’t see ( _ not yet you can’t _ )). Those legs, prickling with tiny hairs that tickled his skin, moved to his forehead at an agonizingly slow pace. It wasn’t until one leg stepped where his eyes were to be that he realized why he couldn’t see.

A layer of silken threads had been weaved over his eyes, quite like a blindfold that adhered to his skin. Layers upon layers blocked his sight, his eyelids stitched shut and his tear ducts clogged with silk, taking away the relief crying would bring. He could feel the thread against his eyes, the unfamiliar sensation mixed with terror leading him to whimper in between gasps of air as he let out dry sobs. He wanted to call out for his mother, but as he had the thought, Charlotte placed two front legs over his mouth, settling them there as if to keep him silent. Her length spanned over his entire face, allowing her to rest on his forehead with back legs lost in frayed hair. He dreaded what would happen if he dared to open his mouth. Somehow he knew it would lead to a throat clogged with web (suffocating ( _ an open mouth that cannot scream _ ))

There she stayed for the rest of the night, leaving Martin to silently sob. Terror overwhelmed his senses, and yet in the back of his mind there was this reassurance that Charlotte wouldn’t hurt him. Something about the web soothed his skin, the silk having been so carefully weaved over his skin let him know that something else was in mind. It took away his right to cry and sob, and yet he somehow knew he was safe, cradled in binding webs that  _ waited  _ (waiting for what ( _ waiting for you _ )). For what, he did not know.  _ Giant house spiders won’t attack unless provoked _ , as the book said, and he hadn’t done anything to offend her. She was patient as she sat there, keeping watch over him like a mother spider over an egg sac (legs crawling in curiosity ( _ eyes knowing that which they shouldn’t  _ ( **_webs binding those that wait_ ** ))). Something inside Martin told him that she was there for him, and that he would be well in the end, even if the tugging at his skin was excruciating as time moved forward (it hurts ( _ change hurts, dear _ )).

(Why are you doing this ( _ to help, silly _ ))

(I don’t want help)

( _ Well then… _ )

( _ We don’t care _ )

When he fell asleep, he didn’t know.


	2. Threads that Bind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin finds that Charlotte has left him with a little gift after their encounter the night before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprised by how much love this got! Hopefully you’ll like the rest coming up. Thank you tons!
> 
> Warning: Graphic insect death, but that’s about it.

Eyes.

Not human eyes. They were black and beady, like deep pools of tar that dragged in all light that touched them. Eight of them, watching him, waiting. He was stuck in a web he could not escape. The silk caressed his skin, beckoning him to relax and fall into the cradle of the web that held him as his mother once did when he was small. They wanted him, a feeling he was far too unfamiliar with. He was drawn to the love, and yet he didn’t want them back.

( _But that didn’t matter now, did it?_ )

* * *

The webs were gone when he awoke to the blaring of his alarm clock.

Martin sat up with a choked gasp, eyes wide and taking in the light that was now so precious to him. The brightness of the emerging sunrise hurt his eyes, to the point where glancing out the window caused him to flinch. He could adjust, but couldn’t understand why his eyes felt so sensitive. 

Charlotte was back on her web, watching him once more. Those watching eyes still had that knowing gleam, but they didn’t have the same intensity as before. They were softer. Had it all been a dream? Martin couldn’t find it within himself to believe it; it had all felt so vivid and real. He could remember the prickle of every hairy leg and the lingering pressure of Charlotte stepping onto the silk blindfold he had been given ( **_gifted_ **). The feeling of his eyelids glued together by silk stitches was ingrained into his memory. It couldn’t have been a dream. The feeling of wanting tears to flow down his face just so he could have some control over his own body was something he never could forget. He wasn’t even allowed the ability to cry or scream. His terror rose back once more, but didn’t crescendo as rapidly as before. He could see and was aware, and yet he still felt trapped in a web. A web that cradled and comforted him, but still held him firm and wouldn’t let him escape.

Why was he still alive? While he was thankful to not have his juices sucked out by his rescue spider, it forced him to wonder why he was let go, or why he was even taken in the first place. What else would the spider want other than to harm him that night? It was this sparing that kept him from considering finding a broom to knock that monster out of its web.

Okay, “monster” felt a bit harsh, but he had been scared. Charlotte had terrified him (blinded him ( _made him see_ )). Besides, he feared what Charlotte would do should she actually be provoked. Even if he wanted to, he didn’t think he could bring himself to kill a living thing.

“Charlotte,” he whispered hoarsely, legs crossed as he watched the spider with tearful eyes. “Why did you do that to me last night? That was… please don’t do that again. Please. I’m sorry if I did something wrong.”

( _The only thing he did wrong was being human._ )

Martin watched Charlotte some more, before shaking his head. Spiders can’t talk— what was he expecting? Promises? Apologies? A twinkle in her eye to give him reassurance that he would be safe? All he knew was that he would have trouble sleeping that night, if he would even sleep in his own bed at all.

He wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth, instead getting up and out of bed, slowly making his way to the door. He kept his eye on Charlotte, who continued to look at him with that same odd softness. It seemed absurd, but to a ten year old, that was what occurred to him and seemed most likely. He gave Charlotte a sheepish stare so as to not offend her, but by this time in Martin’s thoughts, she had turned around to mess with a small fly that had found its way into her trap. How horrible it was that he found himself relating to the poor little fly. He didn’t want to think about Charlotte anymore.

Pushing the horrors out of his mind, he walked out to give his teeth a quick brush and comb wild blonde hair. He looked dead tired, the stress of the night before showing with deep purples that underlined his eyes. It was a miracle that he had an alarm clock or else he would miss his schooling. His mum would be more than cross if he ended up missing the bus; but the only greater sin was waking her up because of said missing bus.

It was as he was placing toothpaste on his brush that he finally noticed the thread.

It was like a thin string of yarn and glistened some in the light, and soon enough it became obvious that it was spider silk. The silk was attached to his chest, taut as it led elsewhere. It was most likely remnants from the night before (if that actually happened ( _it did_ ( **_don’t forget_ **))).Either way, he gave the silk string a quick swipe to brush it out of the way and push those thoughts out of his mind.

Midway through his brushing, he looked down again to notice that the thread was miraculously still hanging on, thin but strong. He was annoyed; all he wanted to do was stop thinking about spiders, get on the bus, and (never thought he would say this) do some school work. Martin just wanted a distraction, something to clear his head and let him get away from the fear he had experienced last night. Another swipe was given, and yet it stayed. That was when frustration melted into stunned confusion. 

After cleaning his mouth and setting down the brush, he tried grabbing the thread between two fingers, but nothing came of it. It was as if the thread wasn’t actually there. Walking to the kitchen and grabbing a pair of safety scissors, he made an attempt to sever the silk, but that did about as much as his hand. 

Following the thread, he found it led to his mum’s room. Something told him the string connected with his mother. As curious and worried about the silk string as he was, he wasn’t about to ruin his mother’s sleep for it. It just wasn’t worth it.

Having no other idea what to do, he decided to try and forget about it and get to packing his bag for the school bus. He tried to ignore the thread as simply vision problems from lack of sleep. When he stepped on the bus, however, he found out just how wrong he was.

* * *

_Threads were everywhere._

Binding and winding and weaving, the interconnecting threads touched anyone and everyone he could see. Connecting everyone and designing an intricate and _beautiful_ web of their own.

Martin was the only one who could see them, this much he knew. He could see them glisten and pull taught between people, and yet whenever he was concentrating on another task, he stopped seeing them. It was like a layer he could turn the layer on and off with enough focus. They were there on a level only he could see, and honestly, it was freaking him out.

Everyone had at least one. Threads connected them to close friends and family and teachers. Martin had multiple, as he soon found out. He had one that led to his teacher, and in turn, she had many that branched out to her students. He found that he had some that connected to other kids that he could call friends. For people he didn’t know or simply didn’t have a relationship with, there was no thread between them, but he could certainly see _their_ threads. Friends connecting friends; even if he had no idea who they were, he knew who was on the other end of each silk trail. Lucy, a girl in her class, had dozens of them, spanning across her family and occasionally out to a friend. These threads wound and bound everyone he saw, the threads so intricate and complex that he could stare for years and never grab the full scope of it. Adding another layer to an already complex weave was the thickness of each thread. Some were razor thin, on the edge of breaking, while others were thick as rope, the silk delicately braided into a strong tie that no sharpened edge could break. His watching let it be known that the thickness indicated the strength of the relationship. The stronger the bond, the more complex the thread was weaved. To say the least, Martin was _fascinated_ yet _terrified_ to suddenly be handed such forbidden knowledge.

Martin could barely concentrate on his work, too busy tracking his eyes over each silken string within this vast web everyone was a part of. There was no one who wasn’t a part of the weave, and oh the _secrets_ Martin uncovered.

Admittedly, they were secrets that would only really interest a ten year old. The teacher had clear favorites and dislikes, with Martin on the lower end of the spectrum (wow, okay). Friends were lying to others, pretending to be closer than they actually were. Two kids everyone believed to be best friends was completely one-sided; there wasn’t even a thread between them. The quiet kid in the back had a thread connecting to a squirrel in the school’s yard that he liked to feed, which is how Martin learned that animals could have them, too.

Martin didn’t notice how many stares he got as he simply sat there, silent and watching and taking in the web and burning it into his memory. It really shouldn’t have surprised him when he was sent to the guidance counselor. Being a ten year old under the soft gaze of the school counselor, he of course spilled what he was seeing. How a spider wrapped him up in webs and now he was seeing spider strings everywhere, going into great detail about every aspect of his dilemma. 

The counselor seemed completely understanding, nodding along and asking questions when appropriate. The talk had to have lasted about an hour before giving some kind words and giving him a note to give to his teacher to explain his behavior, as well a letter to his mother recommending that Martin “be evaluated”, whatever that means. He was simply glad the guidance counselor seemed to believe him.

While he delivered the note to his teacher, he decided to keep the letter from his mum. She was far too busy for him, and he didn’t want to add another work load onto her plate. No, he had a far bigger concern to deal with: the thread between them. It was noticeably thinner than the rest, a rope made from about five or six silk strings, and not like the thickly layer rope of white yarn he had seen between classmates. Worry dwelled within him, causing him to seek out his mother in the kitchen as she was letting the tea steep. Was she mad at him? Was she sick? He needed to know.

“Hey mum,” Martin greeted, hands on the counter and on the balls of his feet as she placed a tea bag into her pot.

His mother gave him a quick glance before returning to her tea, getting out the bag of sugar cubes and some milk. “Hello, Martin,” she greeted in return, her voice that flat tone it always was, but Martin didn’t fret; he knew his mother just had a hard time expressing emotions; it didn’t mean she didn’t love him or anything. “Tea?”

“Yes, please,” Martin nodded, gladly accepting a cup when it was offered. He watched her bring out another cup for him, waiting until she was finished before continuing. “Hey mum, are you okay?”

This vague question garnered a puzzled gaze from his mother. “I’m fine… why?” As she was about to pour the tea, she paused, turning to look down at Martin with a brow arched. Her suspicion was clear as she easily read Martin’s worried visage and mistook it for guilt. “What did you do?” Her voice edged on a dangerous tone, expression falling into one of severe distaste.

Martin squeaked at the sudden interrogation, now on the defensive as he was scrutinized by the piercing blue eyes of his mother. “Nothing!” he replied honestly, but it was obvious she wasn’t buying it. She had a hard time believing anything since his father left, but he tried anyway. “I just wanted to know that you were okay!”

“Martin…” she warned, eyes narrowing as her gaze further dug into his soul. This wasn’t like the spider’s watching that filled him with fear; no, this one sprouted only regret and pain for grating on his mother’s nerves. “You have three seconds to tell me what you did.”

Was it so hard to believe he simply wanted to see that she was okay? He went to defend himself, when his gaze snapped to the thread between them. A single silk string that had woven into the rope snapped, thinning it. He stilled in place. Why was the thread breaking? 

“One…”

His mum’s impatience became clearer with the first number. Another silk line broke, and Martin found himself panicking. What would happen if the entire thread broke? Would she hate him? But she was his mum; they loved each other.

“Two…”

Another string. He panicked. He needed to fix it somehow. He could already see one of the silk threads straining and thinning under the pressure, about to leave the rope thinner than he’d ever seen one.

“Thr—“

“I lost my football under Mr. Daniel’s porch,” he finally confessed, the incident appearing at the forefront of his mind in that instant. He swallowed, watching the string intensely as his mother processed the information. The thread still looked on the verge of snapping; he couldn’t let that happen. “I-I’m sorry, mum.”

A beat passed, and a sigh left his mother’s lips. It was tired, sounding exhausted from the simple conversation. “And… you didn’t try to get it back?”

He dared to look into her eyes. That stare shook him more than any knowing spider; eyes full of familiarity and simple exhaustion (resignation ( _loathing_ ( **_hatred_ **))).

(Why does it hurt? ( _Family isn’t supposed to hurt_ ))

He wasn’t thinking. He swallowed and said in a whisper, “No. There were spiders under the porch.”

He didn’t need to see the next string break, as he could feel it in his senses. The _disappointment_ in her eyes was immeasurable. The pain in his chest ached his body to see her so upset. “I thought you liked those damn things,” she murmured, going back to the tea. “Can’t say I’m surprised. Something is too difficult for you, you go for the next thing that catches your fancy.” She let out a grunt of annoyance when pouring the cups. “Great. The tea is oversteeped— just… take your cup, Martin. I need a nap.”

Martin swallowed, taking his cup and carefully taking it back to his room. He didn’t need super spider senses to know that she was talking about his father. He hadn’t been old enough to remember his dad, but he knew she had been happy beforehand. Her bitterness wasn’t her fault; she had trouble trusting people ever since her husband left. It was sad, but he hoped to be able to bring that happiness back to her (however long that would take ( _longer than the time she had left to live_ ( **_she would never be happy with Martin unless you pull a few strings_ **))).

Martin grimaced as he entered this room and quietly shut the door. He felt this tug of hopelessness within him, and he wasn’t sure where it came from. It was a sad feeling, and he didn’t like it. He felt as though his efforts were in vain, but he didn’t believe it. He still maintained hope, though, because he saw the other threads attached to his mother.

She had a delicate string, so thin it could be broken by a gust of wind, and somehow he just knew it belonged to his father. She still had hope he would come back one day and rescue her from the struggles of single motherhood. If she had that sort of hope, Martin would, too. He could make her happy again. He would take care of her.

( _She doesn’t deserve you_ ( **_make her happy_ **))

He looked up at Charlotte, confused over his own feelings.

( **_Make_ ** _her happy_ )

Charlotte was still, looking at him intensely. She had no pupils, and yet he could tell that he was the object of her focus, and it scared him. It didn’t scare him as much as the breaking thread between him and his mother, though. Never in his life had he felt that sinking dread like in that very moment. His mother was everything to him. Would it ever be repaired? 

( _Repair it yourself_ ( **_make_ ** _her happy_ ))

Why was he allowed to see these threads? If he hadn’t seen the breaking, he wouldn’t be filled with the terror of loneliness he experienced now.

“I don’t want this,” he murmured to a cup of tea, now going cold. “I don’t want to know these things.” Why was he privy to such information? Why was the spider doing this to him? Was it because he broke the egg sac? Had he accidentally killed a spider? His guilt would be through the roof if so.

There was this subtle comfort he found around Charlotte that he hated (despised; he couldn’t bring himself to hate anything ( _yet_ ( **_hatred is so easy to manipulate_ **))). Charlotte shouldn’t be comforting, but he was alone, and she was the only sort of company he had. She had scared him more than anything he’d ever experienced up until a few minutes ago, and yet he had no one else to talk to. No friends he could call up or family he could think to speak to. 

Setting down his tea, he moved to the corner Charlotte sat in, as if on instinct. He didn’t know why he did so, only that he didn’t remember wanting to, followed by fear as Charlotte slowly crawled from her web and down the wall. He laid his palm against the wall, fear still present, but stagnant as she crawled onto the back of his hand, her legs spanning halfway up his forearm. The feeling was so familiar; thin twigs stepping along his skin, delicately balancing despite her bulbous thorax looking thick enough to weigh her down. He could see the individual hairs and count all of her eyes, each one focused on him and understanding him with unusual clarity. He wasn’t afraid of her biting him, however; he was afraid of what else he would do to him. She could bind his mouth or force him to see more secrets he did not want to. But seeing her on his hand, Martin knew she wouldn’t psychically hurt him. Those eyes were too knowing to bite him. There was more in mind, and that was what scared him to his core. 

She didn’t want to harm him, though. Why did he know that?

( _What good is it to crush a spiderling?_ ( **_A Weaver feels our Mother’s love, not hate_ **)

“I just want people to be happy…” he murmured, sitting down on the edge of his bed. “I want my mum to be happy… Happy with me.” He looked to the thread that connected him to his mother; they were both a part of the same web, and yet their interconnecting silk felt as though it could break so easily. It hurt to suspect this beforehand, but it pained him tenfold to actually be able to see it and be reminded of it. “I… I wish we could spend time together like yesterday.”

Focusing on that string as he spoke his wishes aloud, he felt this urge within him. Almost like a subconscious instinct, he thought about reaching out without his hands and just giving it a little tug (pull ( _yank_ ( **_puppeteer_ **))).

Martin’s hand was raised to eye level so he and Charlotte were at equal heights. It only felt right. She felt comforting to him, and he found that his fear of her was no more. “I want her to love me.”

“Martin!”

Martin nearly squeaked in surprise when he heard his mother’s voice come closer to the closed off room. In panic he gently placed Charlotte behind him, who didn’t resist or bite. To the boy’s complete surprise, his mother entered the room for the first time in what had to be months. She looked at him wearily as she always did, but didn’t seem as upset as she had been before. “I’m making a roast for dinner. Do you think you could help me prepare it? Work is doing my head in.”

Martin’s jaw dropped, voice lost as he attempted to process the words two times— three times even. “Oh, umm…” Why was he hesitating? Of course he wanted this, but it was just something his mother had done only a few times before. Besides, hadn’t she said she needed a nap? “Yeah! I can help. I’ll be right there!”

His mum merely gave a nod, turning and leaving Martin to himself. The boy sat there, confused at the sudden shift in tone. His mind strained to come up with reasons and explanations, but could only come up with two.

“Did you do that?” He turned to Charlotte, feeling her crawl on his back, but he found that he couldn’t really care. That’s when he felt the thread. Another silk string was added, negating one of the ones that had been lost in their quarrel. He swallowed, realization dawning over him. “Did… did I do that?”

If Charlotte had the answer, she would not say. Would she ever say anything?

( _Is there even a need?_ )

* * *

Tugging. Pulling. Yanking. A simple movement of a string and people were drawn like moths by some subconscious flame that was not there.

In the days that followed, Martin learned he could pull strings, and not just his own. He could get people to do things, though nothing complex. He could simply nudge them in the right direction to other people.

He practiced in silence. Whenever his teacher found his staring to be inappropriate or wanted to check up on his work, an instinctive _tug_ was given to her string to draw her to another student. He hadn’t even realized he was doing it; when he wanted someone to leave him alone or to pay attention to another, threads were given a quick yank and the people said threads were attached followed the light suggestions of the strings. To be honest, it was all rather nice (it felt good ( _it felt right_ )).

He had seen a lonely kid during their free period, and with a couple of tugs, he was accepted into a group with very little effort. To see the kid’s laughter and ensuing joy had Martin light up in happiness. Getting friends to make up or bullies to leave someone alone; it gave him a great sense of _purpose_. He was doing good things for people. The only exception happened to be when he used his tugs for himself.

When he felt lonely, he wanted to stay lonely. To bring kids over to chat through manipulating their strings never felt right, because while the kids were not aware of it, Martin knew their interest in him was artificial. It never felt genuine; it felt wrong, and it made him feel bad to think about forcing people to like him, even if Charlotte made him feel comfortable when he talked to her about the experiences. It wasn’t their fault that he was the only one aware of the web they were stuck in. But when manipulating others to like each other, ten year old logic allowed him to justify that it was alright because neither party was aware. Both groups were happy, and that’s what Martin liked. He felt like Charlotte from the book, subtly influencing people in the right direction. He was a good person.

Charlotte had yet to put him back in a web of some sort, and by now Martin had forgiven her for what she had done. She was trying to help him in some way, this much he knew, even if he didn’t really understand it. Most of the time she was up on her web, but when Martin would come home, he would outstretch his arm to let her climb on and Martin would sit and talk to her about his day. Occasionally he asked how her day was (it was only the polite thing to do ( _how precious_ ( **_how willing to please_ **))), but Charlotte never really responded. Her gut was always bloated with all that Martin continued to feed her, and by this time, he felt like he and Charlotte had a pretty good friendship going on. He talked, she listened, and sometimes, if he focused hard enough, he could tell she truly understood. Every night after their talks, he would sleep and dream of webs that cradled him and comforted him. They wouldn’t hurt him, and he had soon learned to freefall into their embrace in every drop into sleep.

As for his mum, he felt bad about influencing her. He didn’t want to, but after their time cooking together, filled with idle chat and Martin learning new things, he couldn’t get enough of her attention. He craved her company like a child craves sugar. Each day he would come home to ask if they could do some menial task together such as cooking or cleaning, and she would always agree. He felt the tug each time he asked, and a large part of him ached at the idea of forcing his mother to do something she wouldn’t normally do, but he simply couldn’t help himself. He wanted to rebuild that thread between them and be happy together.

If you were to ask Martin, they were indeed happy, and it was some of the best days of his life. He couldn’t remember the last time he and his mother had felt like this together.

He was glad he had met Charlotte.

* * *

It was a Tuesday when he had finally finished the poem about spiders in class. He had started writing it before the web incident, but it had been delayed for _obvious reasons_. He was excited to read it to Charlotte, thinking that she would appreciate a piece about her kin.

Walking inside after getting off the bus, he couldn’t help but beam at his mother, who was filling out some grownup work he couldn’t quite grasp yet. Numbers were hard for most ten year olds to really want to understand. By now, their tie had grown thicker by a good dozen strings or so, with any qualms he had about the morality of his acts now dissipated. She spoke to him more often, visited his room from time to time, and even helped him with schoolwork when he needed it. It felt like she loved him (she always had ( **_sure_ **)), and that she was finally letting it show. “Mum!” he called out, watching her turn her head a fraction to show that she was listening. “Can we go on a walk later?”

There was that familiar Pull.

“Sure thing, Martin,” she nodded, going back to her writing. “Just give me a minute to finish this up and I’ll go grab my coat, okay?”

Martin couldn’t help his wide grin, moving into his room giddily and setting down his back. Charlotte was on her web, watching him as usual. “Mum and I are going for a walk,” he smiled at her, placing down his bookbag and hopping on his bed. “I feel like she’s been a lot happier, you know? It feels good.” He looked up to Charlotte with a gleam of gratitude in his eyes. “Thank you… thank you, Charlotte, for… you know,” (the threads ( _the gift_ ( **_the love_ **))).

Kicking his legs idly, he began searching for his poem book in his bag. “So, how’s your day been?” Silence, but he always assumed that was a good thing. She would let him know if her day was bad, right? She was a smart spider, after all. “Mine was great. I saw something weird today.” He looked up to Charlotte with a smile, as if seeing if she was listening. She always was. Listening and knowing and understanding. “I saw this girl. She had these threads wrapped all around her hands. Like the spider webs. Do you know what that means?” More silence, and he soon changed the topic. “Oh, I finally finished that poem! I wanted you to be the first person to hear it. I think you’re gonna like it; it’s about spiders!”

“Martin,” came a call from outside his room, footsteps indicating he was about to have a special and welcomed visitor. “Have you visited the guidance counselor recently?” The door opened, but Martin was still searching for his poetry. “I got a call this morning about— _good lord_!”

Martin’s head jerked up in surprise, panicking and looking down at his legs. He hadn’t forgotten to put on trousers again, had he? Thankfully no, as his legs were clothed with a nice pair of khakis. It was then he realized there was only one other thing she could properly fuss over, and that thing was not hard to miss.

Springing from his bed, his eyes snapped to his mother, who was already leaving the room to go get a broom. 

“Christ, Martin, why didn’t you tell me you had that _thing_ earlier? That’s the biggest bloody spider—!”

“Mum! Mum no, it’s okay!” he called back in desperation, swinging his head around and looking to see if he had things around his room to stop or even delay her. He didn’t even have a lock on the door. Doom and dread filled his stomach, swirling in a toxic concoction of terror and pain. “Mum, it’s just a spider! She’s okay!” Thinking of no other option, he grabbed the step stool and placed it under the web, quickly climbing on and outstretching his hand to Charlotte. “Come on Charlotte!” he whined, beckoning her to crawl onto his hand. “She’s coming!”

The spider knew what was happening (he knew she knew ( _knew but didn’t care_ ( **_knew the web was broken but did not fix it_ **))) and yet she did not move. She stayed on her web, staring and watching. That gleam was there, and alongside it was… fondness. A fondness, he knew it in his bones. He had never seen anything look at him in such a way. At this, tears began to flood his eyes, a whine emerging from his throat as he begged her to run to safety with him. He wanted to protect her.

“Martin, are you _honestly_ trying to protect that thing?”

He could hear her coming. He tried desperately to Yank and Tug at her Strings, but she was too dead set; he couldn’t change her mind. Tears cascaded down his face as he was pushed aside by his mother. “Mum, no, stop!” His cries had begun to crescendo into a scream, not caring if people on the other flats could hear him.

His mother had a stiff broom in her hands, ready to give Martin’s best friend a piece of her mind. “I shouldn’t be surprised,” she huffed in spite of Martin’s pleading. “Protecting giant spiders; you’re weird enough to do something deranged like that— Martin! Honestly! It’s just a fucking spider!”

She held the broom like a spear, not planning to wack it, but stab Charlotte as hard as she could with the bristles of the tool. And yet Charlotte did not move. Her eyes were filled with Knowing, and yet she didn’t try to escape.

(Why does it hurt so much ( _change hurts, dear_ ))

The shrill scream of horror that left Martin when that final thrust was given was unlike anything his mother had ever heard before. He could feel it, all of it. The weight of the broom causing limbs to snap, stiff plastic bristles piercing through delicate skin. Bloody and brown insides ripped through her body, gushing out and splattering onto the wall. There was no pain except the agony in Martin’s heart. He watched her body drop from the destroyed web, landing on her back with legs stiff and curled upwards despite their bloody and broken state. 

Martin couldn’t tell if he was still screaming as he felt the strings snap from him; all he knew was that his throat felt torn and his heart felt ready to collapse and his mind wanted to simply erase that image from his mind. He could no longer see the web. He could no longer see the web that connected everyone. The threads were gone as soon as Charlotte’s beady eyes glazed with death.That comfort and knowing was gone from Charlotte’s eyes. It hurt. He could no longer feel that cradle of silk, and it hurt more than anything he had ever felt in his life.

(I don’t understand ( _webs are complex like that_ ( **_She loves you too much to let you go now_ **)))

“Martin! Get a hold of yourself and get the dustpan to clean this up. Disgusting.”

Martin couldn’t hear her, simply staring at the dead body in horror with choking sobs, face wet with tears. 

(When will I see you again ( _building webs take time_ ( **_you will always belong to our Mother_ **)))

(I want to belong)

( _Oh honey…_ )

( **_So willing to please our Mother_ **)

( **_She will adore your resurfacing_ **)

( _The Eye will love you_ )


	3. Beauty is Pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin lands a job at the Magnus Institute and doesn’t give the best first impression.

_ “There is nothing to fear but fear itself.” _

_ ~ Jonathan Sims (2015) _

_ “And spiders.” _

_ ~ Jonathan Sims (2015 (3 seconds later)) _

Webs were always a comfort to Martin, though he could never quite understand his own liking to them. They just seemed super comfortable, like a nice hammock he could lay in and trust its strong silk to comfort him. Even abandoned cobwebs brought some sort of quiet peace within him. Part of him wished that he could somehow build a web blanket, because that would be the most comfortable thing. Everywhere he went, there was always a web hanging around; it’s nothing to say about the building’s maintenance. Webs are unavoidable.

So one may understand why he felt so uncomfortable in the seat before his interviewer. 

The room was absolutely  _ spotless _ . There wasn’t even a silk string to be seen. Despite the fact that those overwhelming fascination of webs connecting people had died when he was a child, they were still a nice sight to see when made by actual spiders. But no, there wasn’t a speck of dust to be seen, much less a cobweb anywhere from what he could take in. Did this man have some sixth sense for spiders? Because that was how he felt at the moment: a spider being studied. Laid back and exposed with pins that held firm his arms and legs without all the flexibility of a spider web, only he didn’t have the dignity of being dead like all those poor spiders on display.

Elias Bouchard. The name sounded so pompous and high class when spoken aloud, and the man before him was no different. Hair slicked back, dressed so prim and proper in a well pressed suit that probably cost more than anything Martin owned. A brooch was pinned to his lapel, one that resembled an eye with the gem in the center so unbelievably electric blue. He seemed to really go for that eye aesthetic, the symbol appearing on his tie and around the institute. Worse was that, Martin couldn’t shake the feeling that they were all  _ watching  _ him. Every pupil seemed trained on him at every moment. An impossibility for sure, but that failed to calm his nerves. He had this certainty that he was somehow stepping onto forbidden territory; trespassing into a place he was not  _ allowed  _ to be in, and was being actively scrutinized for it.

Scrutinizing. That was the best way to describe Elias’ eyes. Seeing into him and through him and  _ knowing  _ him (he had no right ( _ no privilege _ )), and unless Martin was imagining things, they never blinked. He was on display, fileted out like a fish for all his insides to be exposed.

When the interviewer flicked those intense amber orbs from the CV and up at Martin, he  _ knew _ he was boned. Those eyes could see straight through his lies and knew everything he had been hiding. Martin was half-tempted to get up and walk out now after a swift apology of insulting a man of this caliber with a CV he’d whipped up on the fly. He could feel the sweat form on his forehead as he wanted to melt in his seat and sink into the earth upon witnessing the ghost of a smile appear on Elias’ lips. What a fool he must look. That gaze pinned him, forcing him to wallow in his own guilt and humiliation. It almost made him want to cry. He just wanted to go home and crawl under a blanket and—

“When can you start?”

Martin felt his insides begin to sizzle from the amount of shock that zapped through him. He could only let out a dumbfounded “huh?”

How Elias held back a chuckle was a miracle in of itself. His eyes were kind, no longer keeping Martin still with the amber that pierced his soul. Whatever pressure he’d been feeling had lessened, but would never disappear completely. A smile graced his lips as he sat back in his plush seat, fingers tented. “I believe you’re quite qualified for the job, Martin. We are in need of another researcher; it would be grand if you could join our institute.” He paused to press a button at his desk, a small microphone attached for him to speak to whomever was on the other end. “Rosie, could you send Tim to my office, please? I’m in need of his assistance.”

Martin was glad for that little aside because it gave him time to swallow down his disbelief and compose himself. “Ah— an-anytime!” he replied, not only cursing his stutter but also the awe and excitement that leapt up in his voice at the question.

Elias chuckled softly at the tone of Martin’s voice, though it never came off as mocking or condescending. “Do you think you could swing by my office tomorrow morning? Nine o’ clock sharp?”

“Oh of course!” the new hire jumped. Laughing nervously to himself to relieve his own tension, he stood awkwardly and offered a hand to his new boss. “Ah, thank you, Mr. Bouchard, sir.”

Bouchard stood in turn, giving the other’s hand a firm shake. “Oh please, call me Elias. I am quite looking forward to seeing how you do in our institute.”

A knock at the door and Elias brightened some, retreating his hand and calling in whomever asked for entrance. From behind the double doors was who Martin could only guess was “Tim”. He had to be some years older than Martin, dressed in a button up and suit jacket that hardly seemed presentable, along with a tie that hung loosely around his neck that hadn’t even been pulled taut. He looked rather athletic, cropped brown hair not exactly professionally styled. “You call for me, boss?” he asked casually, none of that refined elegance that Elias exuded present within him. His gaze flicked to Martin, when he gave a quick smile and wave. Martin couldn’t help but wave back, doing so in a small and subtle matter that only emphasized his nervousness. Tim no doubt found it amusing, a playful grin crossing his visage. “Already tried out the Institute Gym, I see?”

Martin took this moment to blink in confusion. “Gym? I didn’t know this place had a—“ His mouth clamped shut when he realized that the punchline was just how  _ sweaty  _ he was at the moment. That interview had wrecked him more than he’d initially realized. Oh what a lovely time he was having.

“No gym,” Tim shrugged, his tone playful, but never antagonizing. Teasing, but never malicious. “No showers, neither.”

“Tim, do stop toying with your new coworker,” Elias hummed. “You got here relatively quickly. Knee deep in research in procrastination, I see?”

Tim just winked and shot a finger gun at Elias. “One has to experience it to truly know it, am I right?”

The sigh the Head gave was one of resignation and annoyance. “Yes, of course,” he shook his head, before getting on with the details. “Martin Blackwood, this is another researcher of the Institute, Tim Stoker. He will show you around before seeing you off. Don’t you worry, you will be paid for your time here. Tim?”

Said employee shrugged with a nod, not minding the task. “Sure thing. Don’t know when I became Tutorial Man for every new guy here, but I’m not complaining. Come on, Martin. Let me show you around.”

Elias smiled at Martin and politely gestured him out. “Goodbye Martin. I’ll see you tomorrow. I’ll be keeping an  _ eye  _ on you.”

The new hire tried to bring on a grin, but that last sentence shook him. It was simple and yet it felt almost like a threat of sorts; a small piece of him even grew angry (I don’t like him watching me ( _ he dares Watch despite his Knowing _ )). It didn’t sit well with him. And so the best he could muster up was a small smile before following Tim out.

“Okay, so the Institute’s pretty big,” Tim started off, leading him down the halls, “but you get used to the place after a bit. A lot of the sections aren’t going to be places you’ll need to be. We’re mostly upper floor.” 

Martin nodded as he listened, gazing around at the interior design of the place. Greens and reds with carpeted floors and the occasional aged painting depicting what he assumed were supernatural happenings. He never quite liked the paintings of people, however; their eyes never seemed quite right. He couldn’t explain it, but just knew that he would rather not give them attention. “This institute is a lot bigger than I first thought,” he mentioned, attempting to keep up with his new coworker while still taking in all he could.

“Old institute,” Tim replied with ease, stepping into the main lobby of the building. “A lot of it is taken up by the archives and artifact storage. When you keep collecting a bunch of stuff since the 1800’s, it all tends to pile up.”

He then gestured to the woman at the front desk, an older woman with her hair pinned back in a tight bun and wearing a simple blouse and skirt set up. Martin had seen her when coming in, and smiled at the memory of her smile as she directed him to her boss’ office. “Rosie. Looking as lovely as ever,” Tim grinned, walking over leaning against the counter. “Martin, this is Rosie, the gatekeeper to our house of spooks, valiantly defending our great institute from those who don’t bring their Creepypasta offering to our altar.”

Rosie’s playful roll of her eyes indicated Tim’s antics were a common happening, merely shrugging off the exaggeration and standing from behind her desk and shaking Martin’s hand. “I’m the receptionist. Nice to meet you Martin.”

Tim scoffed as Martin returned the kind words with a smile. “I mean, sure, that’s another way to say it.” His smile returned before he gestured the new researcher to the stairs. 

Martin followed eagerly, a smile on his face from the interactions he’d had so far. Yes, Elias was a little intimidating, but his interactions with the others gave him hope for a rather pleasant work environment. Yes, it may fade over time, given Martin wasn’t exactly the most socially skilled person in the world, but to be out of the house for once and being able to meet new people was a welcome feeling. Tim was far kinder than he could ask for, and it made him curious to see what his relationships with other people were like (how many strings are attached ( _ what are his secrets _ ( **_what strings control this puppet_ ** ))).

Martin frowned and shook his head, attempting to get the consideration out of his head. There was that faint urge he experienced once more, to look at the strings of the man who led him around the institute. Strings that he had learned to shut out a good decade or so ago. These urges and sights of threads had been enough to send him to get evaluated as a child, and with that he was diagnosed with schizophrenia, and as much as he had a love for spiders, talking about them and about the threads he saw turned out to drive people away. It had been fine with him for a few years, until his doctor finally convinced him that the friendships and connections he thought he had with spiders were all a part of his disorder, and that his obsession was impeding on his life. Once he’d finally learned to block out the urges and sights of threads, he was able to move on with his life as a normal functioning teenager. He still looked at the strings from time to time, but never had the same obsession as he’d had before.

However, the urge to view the threads Tim had was oddly compelling; he felt as though he needed to know and uncover this man’s strings. He was sure Tim was the center of his very own large, beautiful web that spanned infinitely in intricate silk weaves and carefully crafted patterns. He was sure his web was stunning, but he resisted the urge to see it with ease. He was an adult and needed to worry about real, tangible things and problems that existed in the realm of reality. He wasn’t about to lose another job for staring at people again and learning imagined secrets.

“Shit!” Tim suddenly gasped when they reached the top of the steps. Without warning, he grabbed Martin’s wrist and tugged him behind a wall. “Come on, we gotta hide!”

Martin didn’t know why he suddenly felt a burst of panic that caused him to follow Tim a bit too eagerly. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he wasn’t supposed to be here in forbidden territory, and so with the sudden outburst, he saw himself as an antelope within a lion’s crosshairs. “What, what is it?” he whispered, undoubtedly impressing Tim with what could be interpreted as good acting.

“Shhh,” the brunette hushed, gesturing to a figure that stepped from one of the offices. “That’s old man Jonny Sims. Legend has it that he only comes out once in a blue moon to torment the other researchers with this ancient practice known as ‘being an absolute buzzkill’.”

Martin could feel himself flush in embarrassment when he realized it was yet another joke. He should have known, but in his defense, he’d been jumpy from the moment he stepped into the building, and Elias had been no help to ease his nerves (if he had even been trying ( _ he doesn’t want you here  _ ( **_but the Eye craves and the Watcher is too curious for his own good_ ** ). In an attempt to recover from his own embarrassment, he adjusted his red-rimmed glasses and took a look at the man.

The so-called “old man” was about the same age as him him, or at least same decade. Stark black hair was cut short and kempt that framed a dark, thin face. White button up, green vest, black slacks; the man looked professional enough to put Martin’s attempt at looking neat to shame, though it didn’t indicate the affluence and power that Elias had. Speaking of, those eyes, an emerald green, were shrewd and analytical, taking in everything he saw with a scrutinizing gaze, and yet when said gaze fell on Martin and Tim with clear agitation, he didn’t feel that same shrinking power that his new boss had. It was still intense, but about a fourth of the effect Elias had on him. 

“They say,” Tim spoke up again, still actively whispering despite the fact that they were clearly spotted, “he drinks his tea without milk and sugar. Bitter and black, like his heart.”

Okay, that fact actually got Martin’s expression to reflexively scrunch up. He was going to say it was another joke for his own sake. He was never judgemental person to people he didn’t know…  **_but_ ** —

The man, presumably named Jonathan, stared at them with clear annoyance, hand on his hip and a number of folders tucked close to his torso. “Honestly, Tim?”

Martin felt a shiver down his spine at the voice; it was smooth and crisp and articulate, making every word defined and clear. 

‘Oh no,’ he thought in panic, ‘he’s hot.’

He always loathed how he was attracted to things he couldn’t have (like some men ( _the love of_ _your mother_ )), but God help him if this man didn’t make his heart flutter. Don’t get him wrong— Tim looked like an absolute _fuck machine_ , but Jonathan had that allure of unattainability that promised him a really stiff and socially awkward time, and _God_ if that wasn’t the hottest thing.

Martin pulled away from Tim, cheeks a bit red from the embarrassment of being caught making fun of a stranger he would be soon working with. Bad first impressions were never a good thing in a new workplace. “Ah, s-sorry about that!” he quickly apologized, approaching the stiffer man, who turned out to be a good foot or so shorter than the admittedly huge frame of the dirty blonde. “I, ah, didn’t know that was going to happen.” He awkwardly put a hand forward. “I’m Martin. Martin Blackwood.”

Jonathan’s gaze flitted to the hand for a moment before taking it and giving it a firm shake. “Jonathan Sims. I assume you’re the new researcher?”

“You know it,” Tim grinned as he approached, patting a hand on Martin’s arm. “Taking the big guy on a tour and showing him the ropes. Sasha at her desk?”

“The break room, I presume,” Jonathan said simply. “She was complaining about Francis not dumping out his previous pot of tea that’s gone cold. Apparently he also left the milk, ergo it’s expired.” 

Tim’s expression twisted into one of horror. “That. Bastard.”

Jonathan simply rolled his eyes. “It’s tea, Tim. Perhaps your unbearable pain would cease if you would just bring your own. Now. If you’ll excuse me.” 

Martin and Tim split, allowing the stiff man to walk through and to wherever his job demanded it. Once he was out of sight, Tim continued to take Martin through the first floor. “Don’t take it too personally. He acts that way with everyone. It’s just how he is; great researcher, terrible company. I doubt he actually hates anyone here.” This relieved Martin some, as he felt like the initial meeting was enough to put him on some sort of shit list. It did, however, worry him a bit, not about Jonathan’s impression of him, but instead the man’s web; the threads that connected him to others. He felt that, if Martin took the chance to look, each string would be thin and they would be few and far between. A sad, weak weave that could be destroyed by a gust of wind. The idea made him frown, but he wasn’t tempted to look; it felt wrong to invade people’s privacy like that, no matter what he felt as a child.

Tim proceeded to bring him to the researchers’ area, showing him the empty desks he could occupy. Martin made sure to stop by each coworker there to greet them and introduce himself, but it wasn’t exactly a long endeavor given most of the researchers were out, you know, researching. He knew it wasn’t like an office job; there was only so much one could do sitting at a computer Googling spooky events. He had yet to really figure out if this job would be a difficult one or an easy one; how much could one really dig up on a subject that may or may not actually be real. Did Martin believe in the supernatural? Maybe. He did have that experience with spiders as a child, and, well, he had to get evaluated for it, so he was hesitant to jump onto a side. It would be neat if he could experience something to confirm it, though; second-hand, of course. He wasn’t trying to meet ghosts.

“Alright, Marto, I’ve saved you the best for last,” Tim announced as they walked into what was presumably the break room. “Prepare yourself. Such greatness was not meant to be looked upon with mortal eyes.”

Before they could even enter, they heard a soft voice laugh from inside. “Honestly, Tim, you need to just quit your job already and become a professional hype man.” The speaker popped her head out, playfully smirking at her friend. Bouncy curly hair was tied back behind a heart-shaped hazelnut faze, dressed in cool colors with her sweater and a lengthy pleated skirt. Her eyes flicked to Martin, and with that she perked up like a well-watered flower in the sun, a grin fitting her face. “Elias hired a new researcher?” She stepped out from the room, holding a mug of tea. “Hey! I’m Sasha. Glad to have you here.”

“Martin,” he greeted back, matching her energy. Everyone felt so warm and friendly around here (almost everyone) and it led him to feel right at home. He noticed the mug and immediately felt the tea connoisseur inside of him take action. “What kind of tea are you drinking?”

“Oh? Black,” Sasha replied smoothly, taking a sip and grimacing slightly as she did so. “Its got the sugar, but no milk. Francis saw to that.”

“Do you like it that way?” Martin had to ask.

“Oh God no.”

“Then why are you still drinking it?”

“I honestly don’t know.” Sasha took another sip for some inexplicable reason and winced once more. “I thought I could fight through it. Don’t think I can, though.”

Martin was more amused than confused, not hiding his chuckle. “Then… then why don’t you just toss it out?”

“Well…” Sasha paused, “I already made the pot. Seems like a waste. Plus Tim was the one to bring the tea bags. Don’t want to be rude.”

Tim had to interject, seeming almost disgusted. “I’m more offended that you’re continuing to drink that.”

Martin was quite enjoying this talk about tea and drinking preferences. Not what he imagined work would be like, but he sure wasn’t complaining. “I could make the tea,” he suggested. “Make it all at once and serve it up at their desks. Used to do that for my past coworkers.”

Tim sucked in the air through his teeth, looking at his friend apologetically. “I’m sorry, Sasha. Looks like you’ve been replaced as my favorite coworker.”

Sasha couldn’t help but toss her eyes. “Mmhmm. Just because I don’t go out of my way to serve you tea, your highness?” She smiled brightly at Martin. “You don’t have to.”

“But I want to,” Martin replied simply. If it would brighten up their days, even just a little, it would be worth the time.

Tim put a hand to his heart. “Oof, I think I just felt a pang of endearment. Don’t go talking like that around Jon. Pretty sure such kindness would actually cause him to feel an emotion. Lord knows that can’t happen. That’s like dividing by zero. Pretty sure the world will implode.”

Sasha gave him a little nudge. “Okay okay, no need to go around giving Martin here bad impressions of people before his first day.”

Tim looked agonized by the prospect of stopping his joke spree. “But there’s  _ so much  _ material in him! I think I’ve finally got my impression of him down pat, too. You just have to act like you’ve never felt the warm touch of happiness.”

It was around here that Martin’s chuckles became forced, more out of politeness than any joy one could glean from the humor. He didn’t quite think it funny to joke about other people so much, especially when Tim was implying how much of a miserable bastard Jon was. Even if it wasn’t true, the implications made him sad on the inside. He wanted to believe everyone could be happy with the right support, just like him and his mother. ‘Naíve,’ people would call him, but he liked to imagine it more as hope and faith; you could never have too much of either, after all. Despite all this, he didn’t say anything. He didn’t think it was in his place to do so. Instead, he decided to change the subject.

“So, shall we move on to the rest of the institute?” he suggested to Tim.

The mention of the tour seemed to snap the other from his riffing on his coworker. “Hmm? Oh. That’s about it. Restrooms are over there and there’s a library around the corner, but nothing more.” He took in Martin’s confusion and decided to elaborate. “We’re just researchers. If we’re not out getting info, we’re going through the database or occasionally getting things from the archival assistants. Not many other places you need to go. Gertrude won’t allow other people in her archives who aren’t Elias or her assistants, security is hardly ever accessible, we never take statements from people who come here, and we’re not allowed in artifact storage without express permission. I mean, if you’re eager to see more, I think the library has some pretty neat potted plants.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Martin smiled, surprised by how relatively simple things were. He expected an institute to be more… complicated, but then again, he was barred from a good two-thirds of the place. He didn’t mind. He liked spending time with Sasha and Tim and wouldn’t mind being cooped up with them instead of having to run around. “Thank you, though. I was really lovely meeting you all. I should let Elias know that I’ve finished.”

“Just tell Rosie on your way out,” Sasha offered. “See you tomorrow, Martin!”

Martin waved as he was about to head down the stairs, but paused just beforehand. He was tempted to look at their threads; see their weaves and webs just out of curiosity. It felt invasive, yes, but he just wanted to take a peek. He was sure their weaves were beautiful, and he simply wanted to take a moment to admire the two lovely people that had constructed them without knowing it. Quickly, he took a peek, and oh how lovely it was.

Both had so many interconnecting strings, forming a complex pattern that Martin had grown to understand but could never quite grasp the scope of it. He had stopped trying to control people after the death of Charlotte (it felt so wrong and icky), but every so often, he had to gaze at the silk strings that bound everyone and stand in awe at its beauty, even if it was all in his own head. Everyone was connected in this web one way or another, and it gave him comfort to know he, too, could one day be a part of their web and feel the loving caress of silk on his skin. Metaphorically, of course. 

It was no surprise that there was a noticeably thick tie between Tim and Sasha. No doubt they were very close. But what caught his eye was not the rope between them, but instead one of the threads that Tim had. Instead of rooting out from his torso, a few small strands were wrapped around his throat like a choker or a collar. They didn’t lead anywhere, and it puzzled Martin more than anything else. Sasha didn’t have any sort of thread quite like that. 

Martin didn’t dwell on it at the moment, deciding to go back home and get a restful sleep. He didn’t want to start up another obsession over this.

* * *

“Tea’s up!”

Martin came out into the main work area with a tray of tea, gently coming over and setting the mugs down. Thankfully each mug was pretty distinctive and Martin had gotten a list of everyone’s tea preferences beforehand, all except Jon’s, but as Tim said, “bitter and black like his heart”.

He gently set Tim’s mug down next to him, watching his brighten up in surprise. The mug was porcelain white, the only words being “Ask Me About Kayaking” in curvive blue. “I actually thought you were kidding yesterday,” he said, taking up the mug and taking a small sip. He paused to consider his taste, before giving a simple “Holy cow, that’s good stuff.”

That’s all Martin needed to hear to have his spirits lift some. He moved to Sasha, setting down her mug, which happened to feature some pretty artistic scenery; a night sky, from what he could tell. Sasha looked touched. “Oh, Martin, you didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to,” he repeated from the day before, basking in the warmth of her smile. “Enjoy!”

He moved to his own desk, setting down his mug, which featured a picture of a pretty good cow. He handed off a few more mugs before at last he came to Jonathan’s desk, setting down his mug, which was simply black with no real design to it. That was fine; not everyone was into stylizing something as replaceable as a mug that you leave at work. Jon looked over at the mug, brow arched in faint surprise. Even though he had seen Martin giving tea to everyone else, it seemed as though he hadn’t expected himself to be included. “I didn’t ask for tea,” he spoke flatly, gazing up at the gifter from his seat.

Martin felt nervous at the admittedly cold response, but kept his composure. There was no reason for Jon to despise him at the moment, and he seemed fine with Tim, so he doubted he would get on the man’s bad side by making him tea. “Well, I thought it would be nice. I do it all the time.”

Jon considered the tea for a moment, before taking up the cup with both hands and giving it a steady sip. He mulled over the taste before giving a small nod, not looking up at Martin and instead looking at his laptop. “It’s good. Thank you, Martin. That was… very kind of you.”

“Oh, don’t mention it,” said the blonde, bashfulness beginning to creep up on him. As he was about to take the tray back to the break room, however, his eyes spotted something all too familiar.

Something small, almost unnoticeable had it not been for its black figure contrasting with Jon’s white button up, crept up on the man’s shoulder. A spider had somehow mistaken this stiff human as a good place to construct his web, a notion that Martin found quite cute. He was a noble false widow, the eye-like design on his bulbous abdomen making them quite memorable little things. He might as well help two creatures.

“Jonathan,” he spoke, going softly and slowly so as to not spook him, “I want you to stay very still.” By now, Jon had gotten back to his work, but paused to give him a small glance of offended confusion, giving out a gruff “Excuse me?” Like a reflex, he leaned farther away as Martin’s hand came closer, gaze coming to a glare that tried to dissuade him from coming any closer. “What are you—?”

Martin said nothing and placed a finger on Jon’s shoulder, beckoning the spider to come to the safety of the gentle giant’s hand. The false widow seemed inclined to do so, stepping over to the offered platform eagerly. It was in that moment that Jon turned his head to follow Martin’s hand, eyes coming to rest on the object of his focus. There was a moment of pause where one could see the buffering symbol in his head before things finally loaded and realization hit him.

* * *

Elias was considering the rest of his night, having finished most of his paperwork. A new employee was under his gaze, and from what he could see, he got along well with the others. Even Jon was coming around. He decided he might as well reward himself, taking out the saved bottle of wine and pouring himself a glass. Perhaps he could call up Peter; the man was back from sea after a long seven months, and it was always nice to speak to an old friend.

Deciding to do exactly that, he brought out a smartphone adorned with an electric blue eye on its back, bringing up Peter’s number and shouldering the phone to his ear.

A couple of rings passed before there was a click. “Elias? It hasn’t been a day since we docked. Miss me that much, hmm?”

Elias could see the teasing smile in the man’s voice, a smirk not leaving his own countenance. “Can’t a friend check up on his peer?” he questioned, taking a sip of his wine and swirling the liquid to witness its richness in the trails it left. “After all, so much time out at sea must have left you quite  _ lonely _ . I believe—“

“ **_WHAT THE FUCK— GET IT OFF GET IT OFF—!_ ** ”

A loud scream broke through the walls of his office, so loud and abrupt that even Elias didn’t see it. He choked on his words, hand reflexively clutching the glass so hard in surprise that it shattered in a mess of shards and fine wine. “What in Beholding’s name—!” His teeth clenched as he pulled a few glass daggers from his hand, phone forgotten on the table as he stood up, grabbed a handkerchief to clean and wrap his hand, and stormed out.

Peter was silent on the other end, waiting patiently until he realized that he’d been forgotten. “Alright, talk to you later, I suppose.”

By the time Elias had topped the stairs, everything had gone to hell. Jon had desperately batted and swiped at the spider to get it off of him, causing it to tumble off and fall onto the desk. It was fine, from what Martin could tell, but it wasn’t out of danger just yet.

Watching the insect dart in front of him, Jon found the closest spider-killing mechanism (an old newspaper he was studying for research), and rolled it up, making his intentions quite known.

The spider froze in on the hardwood, deciding where to go, not knowing that he was about to become a stain on the surface below him. Martin let out what could best be described as a shriek, lunging to cup his hands over the little guy and shield him from the blow. The action was so abrupt that he didn’t account for how close Jon’s mug was and thus ended up knocking it over, spilling hot tea onto its owner’s front, soaking his top and lap. He let out a pained shout, dropping the newspaper into the puddle that was forming on the ground and leaping out of his seat in a vain attempt to stay dry. A string of curses sprung from his mouth as he threw a seething glare at Martin. “What are you doing? Kill that bloody thing!”

Martin was horrified at the request that he crush the innocent spider. “What? No!” he refused as if he was using common sense. Knowing his error, however, he hurriedly scooped up the tiny thing and lurched away from the desk, his hindered spacial awareness leading his elbow to jab into the stack of files Jon had laid out on the desk. Everyone in the room watched the files topple to the ground, loose sheets of paper scattering all over the floor and some being stained with tea as a result.

“Hoooooly shit,” Tim spoke up in genuine astonishment, watching this train wreck continue to derail.

Jon entangled his hands into his hair, staring down at the mess in his speechless befuddlement. “ _ MARTIN! _ ”

Martin babbled something incoherent to even himself, and like the saint he was, placed the spider down on his own desk carefully so it wouldn’t get hurt. With everyone watching, he turned to Jon and let out a squeaking “Sorry?”

Looking at the seething Jonathan Sims was like staring at a bomb seconds before it was about to detonate. “ _ Sorry? _ ” he parroted, voice so sharp that Martin was sure he was bleeding somewhere.

Before anything more between the two could happen, Sasha quickly stepped in, gently grabbing Jon’s arm. “Hey hey! It was just an accident, alright?” she coaxed, successfully turning his attention on her instead of Martin. “Let’s get you cleaned up. Tea tends to stain, you know.” Mutters could be heard from Jon as he followed Sasha to the break room and out of sight.

Martin began to follow to provide support, but was immediately stopped by Tim stepping in front of him. “Whoa whoa, I think you’re the last person he wants to see at the moment.” He didn’t hold back his honesty, knowing it was what the man needed to hear. “Just let him cool down. Come on, help me clean up his stuff. It’s the least we could do.”

Martin felt a sting in his chest at the suggestion, but nodded, knowing Jon wouldn’t really want to see him for the rest of the day; it would be a difficulty because his desk was the closest one to Jon’s. He bent down and helped scoop up the papers, separating the damp ones from the dry and making them as neat as possible.

As they were finishing up, Elias approached, handkerchief around his hand and a clear air of tiredness that wasn’t present hours before. Those eyes still had that same intensity that pinned Martin like a bug on display, though they didn’t seem to be as knowing as they had before. It was more agitation over the incident. “I don’t think I need to tell you that I would like to speak to you in my office when you’re finished,” he told his newest employee. “Nothing serious, just…” he gazed over at the spider that still sat on Martin’s desk, “just a talk over your priorities. I’ll be waiting.” He gave a curt nod before smoothly going down the stairs.

Martin watched, letting out a small whine, face heated in embarrassment. Well, this was the end of his job. He was sure it actually wasn’t, but he was half tempted to quit on the spot so he wouldn’t have to be a burden on the team anymore. Despite this, he had that anchor that kept him grounded. “I’m doing this for mum,” he reminded himself under his breath. “Just ride it out. Jonathan will forgive me (I hope) in time. It was just a mistake.”

Swallowing as he stuffed odd papers into the last file, he looked to Tim. “You said that Jon doesn’t hate anyone here, right?”

Tim paused, puffing his cheeks as he let out an exhale. He pursed his lips, looking Martin in the eye as he prepared to lay down some honestly. “Listen, mate, I know what I said but… I think we’ve found the one exception. He’ll get better in time, but you have to be more careful, okay bud?”

Martin stared blankly forward for a few moments as his mind struggled to find some sort of solution or hope, but there really was no salvaging this. “Fuck me, then…” he huffed in resignation, moving back to his desk. He no longer felt interested in his tea, taking his phone and stuffing it into his pocket as he prepared to go see Elias. A little friend caught his eye, though. The noble false widow seemed to have found its home on Martin’s desk, already beginning to weave its web in between the leaves of the potted plant he had placed there. Martin just watched it build its intricate pattern, defeat on his face. He had made this entire scene just for one tiny spider. He felt ashamed. “What’s wrong with me?”

( _ Nothing, darling. Mother’s children care about you as you do them  _ ( **_our mother is happy with you_ ** ))

Martin felt the subtle stewing of self-hatred within him, and with that he walked to the stairs and to Elias’ office. He was glad he was now in a supernatural-based institute, as now he felt he fit in with all the other artifacts and stories that people considered weird and strange.

( _ Beautiful _ )

Before he went down the steps, he felt the urge to look back, willing himself to see the threads that bound everyone. He was startled to notice that he himself had gained two more threads, both weak, but that was expected from new relationships. He followed them with his eyes, realizing that they were connected to Sasha and Tim. His pain lessened some by the steady comfort of knowing they considered him a friend. Those silk strings came to comfort him once more. 

(Things will be okay ( _ we will make sure of that  _ ( **_isn’t our work stunning_ ** ))).

“Beautiful,” he subconsciously agreed before leaving the work area for his lecture.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now, what to name this Spider?


	4. Anchored Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin gets promoted in more ways than he thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the name suggestions! Greatly appreciate it! However it seems that most missed the fact that the spider this time around is male. But it did inspire me to give him a name connected to royalty.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> Content warning for this chapter: Needles in skin, and, of course, spiders.

( **_Today is our big day. The Mother is watching._ ** )

Martin had this knack of keeping up with both people and living creatures in general. He usually had a sense of people’s routines and where they were most of the time, their threads connecting them tightly to coworkers in the departments they resided in, outlining the pattern of a web through the thickness of the strings. His perception of the people and critters that crossed his path had gotten much sharper over the years, and with that, their lives before his eyes became far more fascinating. At times he would watch bonds form between complete strangers on the street after a small bump, and other times he liked to simply look out the window and watch a mother bird come flying back at the tug of the strings that tied her to her hatchlings. So it wasn’t really a surprise that the breakroom (a relatively dirty area) was like Martin’s little hunting grounds. The moment an insect entered, he saw it, and he caught it. He liked to think of himself as the spider he was feeding, clearing out pests and the like. It was as he was making tea that he saw a crane fly this time around. He took note of it, making sure to finish the tea first and going out to serve it. He didn’t want bug on his hands when giving tea; it was just unsanitary. 

“Tea’s up,” he announced, watching Tim and Sasha brighten as he rounded the corner. It has seemed that they were having a conversation beforehand, no doubt about the subject on everyone’s mind: Gertrude Robinson, the, well,  _ previous _ Archivist. It had been four months since he’d joined the team and three months since Gertrude’s disappearance. By now her case was classified as a missing person, but given that her belongings were abandoned, most within the institute suspected it to be the worst case scenario. He listened in on some conversations about her, but could never really speak on it. No one could, really, except maybe Sasha, as it seemed that Gertrude was a very private person. He simply wished he knew her just so he would be able to properly mourn her disappearance.

In spite of her unfortunate passing, the archive did need an archivist before things got too out of hand, and so the researchers expected any day now for Elias to promote someone. That someone, no doubt, was Sasha James. Everyone knew she was best fit for the role, and she actually knew Gertrude on some level. Martin was, to say the least, excited and happy for Sasha, though he was a bit saddened at the prospect that he wouldn’t be able to work beside her anymore or collaborate on research topics. They were good friends, something Martin didn’t need to look at threads to know.

“Here you are, Sasha!” he chirped, setting her mug down before her, once more rewarded with a warm smile. 

“Umm, I believe it’s Miss James to you,” Tim scoffed, now offended on Sasha’s behalf despite the toss of her eyes. His grin returned, ignoring his own work in favor of chatting with the two. “You think there’s any archival assistant jobs open? I think I can charm Elias into moving me through departments.”

Martin gave a shrug as he set down Tim’s mug. “Rosie was saying that she hadn’t had assistants in months. She was running it all by herself.” He took a pause, frowning as he looked down at his own tea. “Sounds rather lonely if you ask me. I do hope Elias assigns you some, Sasha.”

Sasha was no doubt flattered by all this assured confidence that she would get the job, her cheeks tinting a slight red. “Well, if I become the head archivist—“

“ _ When  _ you become head archivist.”

“Tim! Well, if I get to pick, I know which two are coming with me for sure.”

Martin felt touched, even if it was expected, he’d grown close with Sasha and Tim and considered them friends who didn’t mind his quirks and forgave him for when he happened to have a clumsy moment. Of course, unless she meant a  _ different  _ pair of people, but that was his paranoia. He’d watched their threads connected to him grow thicker with each passing week, and it comforted him to know that he had friends who he  _ knew  _ cared about him back. Too many times he was treated so friendly by coworkers in old jobs with no string connecting them. He’d originally believed it was just something wrong with his sight (like how he kept seeing that thread around Tim’s throat), but by the time he’d come to the institute, he had sort of accepted that he was just unlikable.

But he wasn’t. He knew this because he had friends, and as long as he kept reminding himself of this fact, life would go on like normal.

And then there was Jon. Not a single silken thread could be found between him and Jon, and it hurt, but was understandable. Martin was just too much of a clutz around the professional researcher, and Jon wasn’t very appreciative of off-topic conversations about things Martin found interesting. It never deterred his feelings, however, and he was frustrated that he always strived for things he could never possibly obtain (could only dream of having ( _ having such human desires _ )).

It wasn’t that Martin didn’t try to amend things, but such attempts were outweighed by the blonde not being the most graceful.

Although, something that did not help his case was  _ probably  _ the fact that Martin still had that spider on his desk that was within viewing distance, and it came to light that Jon had an extreme fear of spiders (irrational, if you ask Martin ( _ mmmm not really _ )). Speaking of which.

He went to Jon’s empty desk (he had been called down to Elias’ office earlier), placing down his tea and hoping that it wouldn’t grow cold by the time his coworker came back. He placed his mug down on his own desk, taking a small sip before slipping out and back to the break room. With ease he snatched the crane fly from the air (sometimes he felt like a spider ( _ you will get closer in time _ ( **_we have yet feel it weave into our skin_ ** ))) before he brusquely strode to his desk, where Eliot was resting in his intricate web between two leaves of the healthy plant Martin prided himself on taking care of. 

He gently placed the squirming bug into the web, where the spider was quick to bite into it and weave it into its silk cocoon. The spider was still fat from its last meal, but Martin fully understood what it was like to overindulge. “There you go, Eliot,” he encouraged, watching him wrap up the insect as one would saran wrap leftover meatloaf. “That should keep you satisfied for the next week or so.” 

Tim turned in his swivel chair to face Martin. “I still can’t believe you named it. I’m surprised Elias let you keep him; there’s a no pet policy here. I never knew you to be one to break the rules, Marto. Do you even have a leash for it?”

Martin pursed his lips at Tim’s teasing. “Well Eliot doesn’t want to go home with me. I keep trying but he keeps returning to the desk.” He huffed, watching Eliot’s legs move so gracefully over each silken string. It was so fascinating how a spider could know on instinct where each thread was when it would set down a limb, completely aware of every aspect of its own creation. “Besides… I couldn’t bring myself to destroy the web he’s made here. He worked so hard on it, weaving its beautiful shape, every thread an essential piece to its foundation. A web is home; safety; a way to survive. I wouldn’t want to move out of my flat out of the blue. That’s like my web. My safety. He didn’t want to be here; humans forced him to roam to find food in a place only for our ilk. To destroy that purpose? I couldn’t do that to him. I couldn’t do that to anyone, no matter who they are.”

There was a moment of silence before Tim let out a slow whistle of one who was impressed. Martin looked up from Eliot, cheeks quickly flushing in embarrassment when he realized he had been rambling there without noticing. “Ah, sorry about that!”

Sasha only smiled, turning back to her laptop when her work phone began ringing. “I can see why you’re invested in poetry. I don’t know if I could ever have the same artistic outlook on things like spiders.”

Martin rubbed the back of his neck, humming to distract from red-dusted cheeks. “Well, I suppose that’s why I named this little lad Eliot. Poetry has always been a passion of mine.” He neared his pinky to Eliot, watching how his tiny forelimbs stretch forward to hook onto the appendage, but never actually climbed on. Martin liked to believe this was Eliot giving him a tiny handshake. 

Tim arched his eyebrows questioningly. “Is that some fancy poetry guy?”

Martin has to stop himself from pulling a judgemental face, knowing it was rude to look down on someone for something they didn’t know just yet. “You know, T.S. Eliot?” he expanded. “Since this little guy here is a  _ noble  _ false widow, I decided to name him after Eliot, since he won the Nobel prize in 1948.” He smiled to himself, patting himself on the back for coming up with something so clever.

Tim let out a small chuckle at this, shaking his head. “That would actually be neat if you were naming an actual pet and not  _ a bloody spider _ . It’s not like it will be any use, like calling him over or teaching him tricks.”

( _ I beg to differ  _ ( **_spiders give the best hi-fives_ ** ))

There was really no time to argue when Sasha put down her phone, giving a quick twirl in her swivel chair in a burst of barely restrained excitement. “That was Elias. He wants the three of us to come to his office. Says he has something to tell us.”

Tim leapt from his seat, he and Martin donning matching grins as he pat Sasha on the arm enthusiastically. “Well, today’s the day! Ice cream afterwards?”

Sasha chuckled as they trotted down the wide staircase together, Tim and Sasha side by side and Martin gleefully tagging closely behind them. “Mmmhmm, and I assume it’s going to be my treat again?”

Tim gave her a small bump on the shoulder, laughing with her. “What? You’re the one getting the big raise. You think I have archivist money?”

As Sasha gave her retort, Martin watched with contentment. They were honestly so cute, and it had taken only a matter of days for him to suspect that there was something between them. Their bond was thick, but he could tell from the way it was weaved that it was nothing too serious. Those in love usually had their threads weaved like braids, inseparable and hard to break. Tim and Sasha’s were more wound together; able to be unraveled, but still clearly intertwined enough to hold its weight. He was happy that they were happy, though he would be lying if he said he wasn’t at least just a bit jealous. He would like to know the experience of building an intricate weave with someone that would stand the test of time. He was still happy for them, however, even if they were staying good friends. They were honestly so adorable that he just wanted to gather both of them up in a big hug and love them dearly. As long as he had their friendship, he wouldn’t ask for anything more. He honestly had no right to ask for more, anyhow, what with how food the universe had been treating him as of late. 

Tim gave the mahogany double doors a good knock, swiftly receiving an invitation to come in from their superior. Martin walked in with the others, noticing Jon was already there. His arms were crossed and he stayed silent, a look of detachment in his eyes along with small sparks of lingering shock. Martin could still feel some discomfort within himself, that feeling of being watched (being studied ( _ being invaded _ ( **_being splayed open_ ** ))) still strong after all these months. He liked Elias; he was very polite and gentlemanly and cared about his employees, but that urge to hide from his gaze never left Martin’s side. His feelings were akin to a cockroach reacting to the lights of the kitchen suddenly flicking on. He had never seen Elias’ threads before. He felt as though he were invoking some great sin just by invading such privacy. Over time, that sense of forsakenness by the institute had lessened, but something told him that Elias was off limits. Whatever that meant.

“Boss,” Tim greeted, hands shoved into his pockets and putting no effort into hiding his grin. “Good to see you. What’s the news?” 

Eyes flitting up to his employee with a professional fondness, Elias gave a small smile as he set his pen down beside a lacking file of papers. “Good to see you, too, Tim. Thank you all for joining me. You don’t have to play coy; you know very well what this meeting is about.”

Sasha gave a proper, but grim nod. “This is about… Gertrude, isn’t it? Her position as Archivist?”

Elias matched Sasha’s frown, bowing his head slightly to confirm. “Unfortunately, no progress has been made on her case, and given my work with the police, I’m afraid she may not be coming back. I believe you four didn’t know her quite like I did, but she was a dedicated woman. Hardworking and made  _ many  _ sacrifices for her work. A shame for her to go out as she did.” After paying his respects, one that seemed to satisfy his female employee, he moved onto the main topic. “But as we know, this institute can’t properly run without an Archivist storing away its wealth of information, and it’s been too long since Gertrude was here to do the job. So today I’ve decided whom I will make her successor.”

Tim gave Sasha a pat on the arm. “And a great choice you’ve made, boss. I doubt anyone will regret it.” Martin could practically feel the heat spreading to Sasha’s cheeks as she tried to discreetly smack his hand away.

Elias hummed, chuckling softly as he tented well-manicured fingers. “I’m glad you feel that way, Tim. I must say, I thought you would be conflicted about my decision, but it’s good to hear that you’ve accepted Jonathan as your superior already. I felt him best suited for the role, and we’ve decided that he would like to enlist you three as his assistants.”

Martin immediately wanted to just duck out of the room to avoid the ensuing few minutes. 

There was this moment of thick silence as Tim and Sasha took a moment to process what was just said. Sasha’s lips met in a thin line, apparently rather talented in hiding her inaudible opinions. Tim, on the other hand, was blinking like a busted flashlight, expecting a “gotchya!” at any minute. Jonathan had no input, keeping his mouth shut as he looked over at the three. While there were traces of discomfort, that subtle sign of just having been hit by a bombshell told Martin that Jonathan had expected this just as much as they had. No one had been given any word that Jon would get the position, and it seemed like he suspected it least out of all of them. The newest member of the team kept quiet, feeling as though he could cut the tension with a pair of scissors. If he could, he would slide out of view; opacity 100 to 0 himself as quietly as he could. He didn’t think he would be noticed (or at least his absence not cared about). Martin felt as though he had no right to speak in this conversation, but still fought the instinct to hide away.

Tim was the first to speak, and did so with the graceful eloquence of back alley graffiti. “Uhhhhhhhh, wha—“

Sasha silenced him with an elbow to his shoulder, her countenance now shifted from surprise to one of weary warmth. “I think Jonathan will make a great Archivist.” She turned and extended her hand to meet Jon’s. “It’ll be great to work with you.”

Jon met her in turn, shaking her hand firmly. “Likewise on my part.”

Elias clasped his hands together, a small smile spreading as he flicked his gaze between the two. “It’s good to see we’re started off so amiable already. Now, take your time moving your things into the archives; this is quite a big change. There will be some vacant desks near the center in the room adjacent to the soundproof recording stations. Get familiar with your new workplace, as it is the largest part of our institute and can be quite the maze.” The corner of his lips twitched downwards in what seemed like sorrow (or annoyance ( _ disappointment  _ ( **_hatred_ ** ))). “Gertrude did not leave it in a properly groomed state, I’m afraid.”

Sasha seemed one step ahead. “In that case, let’s get moving. No time like the present.”

Elias held up a finger, keeping them in place. It was unfortunate for Tim, as he no doubt had a  _ lot _ to talk about. “Ah ah, there is just one last thing I require from you four.” From a file his folded hands had been resting on, he pulled out several sheets of paper, all seeming to be standard application forms. “Given this is a change in department and pay, I would like to request some written verification in case of unexpected changes in our systems and the like. I just simply need you to sign your respective forms and you can be on your way to the archives.”

Tim shrugged, taking up the form offered to him. “All this verification, hmm? You sure you don’t want me to take a blood oath or something just to make it extra official? It would really fit the spooky vibe you’ve got going around the institute.” Despite his jabbering, he took up the lone pen and signed his name without even sparing a moment to read through its passages. Elias hardly seemed bothered, motioning for the pen to be passed along. 

Sasha took the utensil up, her eyes skimming through the page in slight consideration before signing her name down. With a smile, she passed it to Martin, who did likewise and placed his form down to sign it. 

Before the ink even touched the paper, there was a tug. His blood ran cold, and he didn’t know why. When he looked over the form, his breathing constricted, hand tightening around the pen. He felt as though he were struggling against binds to even move his hand. Why did this feel so wrong? He had this odd instinct within him to shove the paper back in his employer’s face, for if he signed that empty space betwixt borders of black text, he would somehow sign his life away. Ridiculous, but it felt true. The spider on display was now a spider under the watchful gaze of a hungry bird of prey. 

Trapped. Caged. Not bound in the comforts of silk but pressed against metal bars by a thousand eyes.

“Go ahead, Martin,” Elias encouraged smoothly, hands tented as he watched him with a calmness that terrified him. Those eyes— why won’t they stop watching him (stop looking at me ( **_stop Knowing me_ ** ))? His eyes flitted back down to the paper, gaze catching one of the paragraphs that detailed out the Institute’s general policies. There was one word in particular that held him still; so easily ignorable and yet it was comparable to a needle in a haystack, waiting to bite him when he fell into the faux comfort of bureaucratic paperwork.

_ The Magnus Institure does not condone harassment, inappropriate behavior, or threads, and such acts against coworkers outside of the Institute may lead to termination. _

Threads.

He knows ( _ he Knows _ ). 

This sudden fear enveloped him. He was Seen, even if he didn’t know what that really meant. His palms were sweaty, pen on the paper but never quite making a mark. He felt naked and exposed in front of Elias, and it terrified him. In that moment, he would have  _ sworn _ on his  _ mother  _ that the sight of professional pride of an employer promoting his associates cracked with the faintest upward twitch of Elias’ lips.

Sasha leaned a bit to look past Tim and over at Martin. “Hey, Martin. Is… is everything alright?” 

He looked back at her, seeing the thread between them. Her voice soothed his nerves. He could see the friendship between them, and when he looked to Tim, he felt that same comfort of someone who genuinely cared about him. When he saw them, he didn’t feel alone.

Threats. That was what was supposed to be on the paper, not “threads”. It was just a simple typo, and with that, he felt comfortable moving forward. “I’m fine,” he smiled, signing the page perhaps a bit too shakily for his liking, but it was done nonetheless. “Just taking in the moment. I, ah, usually don’t get promoted in jobs, so it’s a big thing for me I guess. Thank you, Elias, for this opportunity.”

The Head of the Institute hardly seemed disingenuous when taking the paper back, returning the smile with a, “No, thank  _ you _ , Martin. I knew I wouldn’t regret taking you in.” 

Martin could somehow  _ feel  _ Jon rolling his eyes. A guess more than anything, but he didn’t let it get to him as he handed the pen to the new Archivist.

Jon had taken the time to review his own contract, and if there was any typo on his, he didn’t mention it. There was only a moment's hesitation before he signed his name with flawlessly tight penmanship, soon handing the page back to Elias. 

“Thank you all,” Elias hummed, neatly stacking the papers together. “Now, if there are no further questions, you may be on your way. I would like a few more words with you, Jonathan, however, just to go over nuances.”

Jon stayed behind to speak further with Elias, so when the assistants left to clean out their things, Tim found no problem in saying, “Wow. I knew Elias was old fashioned but I didn’t think he was the kind of old fashioned that came with sexism and all that. I thought it was all just suits and wine and paintings. The quirky stuff without all the prejudice.”

Martin felt a twinge of sorrow in his chest for Sasha, but couldn’t bring himself to put blame on Elias. He didn’t like to think his employer was intentionally biased in his choosing. “Well, maybe he didn’t know you were wanting the job, Sasha.”

This was the first time Martin heard Tim snort with laughter. 

“Elias? Not know?” he sniggered, giving Martin an elbow to the arm. “Please. That man knows  _ everything _ . Nothing escapes him. I once dropped my keys in the Institute and spent all bloody day running around looking for them. Guess who had them waiting for me when I went to clock out? But that’s beside the point.”

“A raise is a raise, Tim,” Sasha sighed, seeming resigned despite the fact the overlook from Elias stung her deep. “I’m just glad I’m moving up, even if it’s as an assistant.”

Tim had stopped by maintenance to grab a few boxes for themselves before they headed up the stairs. “Still, you should have gotten the job. You’ve been here the longest; hell, you knew Gertrude personally.”

Sasha couldn’t help her laugh as the three began to pack their things for the move down. “I watched over her cat while she went out with her assistants. I would hardly call that ‘personal’, Tim.”

Martin listened in, content with hearing their conversation and giving the occasional nod whenever he agreed with something one said. He took his attention away for a moment, however, to begin his pack. “Goodbye desk,” he sighed, a bit sentimental. This was, after all, the closest seat to Jonathan, and now that Jon would probably have his own office, he’d have nothing to admire from afar when he needed a stress break. 

He hesitated when putting his notebook in the box, suddenly aware of just how creepy that sounded from his head. No wonder Jon kept his distance.

After setting a majority of his personal items in the box, he gently grabbed the potted plant and turned it in his hands in consideration. “Okay, Eliot, this might be a touch strange, but we’re moving. Is that alright with you?” Eliot, as per usual, did not speak, but his stillness let Martin know that he was content as long as the web wasn’t destroyed. Martin was happy with that, setting the pot beside the framed picture of his mother before heaving the box into his arms, somehow balancing the mug of tea atop the mountain as well.

Tim noticed the pile, halting mid-sentence to give Martin a playful yet knowing look. “Uhh, need any help there, Marto? Lot of stuff you got there.”

“Oh I wouldn’t want to be a burden. I can handle it,” Martin assured him, confident in his own ability despite his track record with carrying things around. “I’ll see you two when I’m all set up!”

As promised, his descent downstairs was a smooth and effortless one. He could be clumsy at times, but he liked to believe that having confidence in oneself was the key to getting better. 

He’d never been to the Magnus archives before, so he needed a few directions before finding the right hallways that would lead to its sectioned-off wing. The door was unlocked, the lack of dust on the handle indicating that it was passed through often. He braced himself for tip-toeing, knowing that Elias had mentioned it was unkempt. No doubt he’d have to step over a few dusty boxes here and there. He didn’t blame Gertrude; he knew what it was like to slack off every once and awhile. She had probably been stressed and didn’t prioritize cleaning. Poor old woman probably needed some assistants to keep the place in order.

But he had clearly never met Gertrude Robinson, for he was not prepared.

The inside was a nightmare. 

Martin considered himself a tidy person; he needed to be if he was going to be caring for his mother. Everything had a place so he would never be sprung up on by forgetfulness, a factor that usually got him a good berating. So when he walked into the vast and extensive archival room that  _ had  _ to have been struck by a tornado at some point, he nearly dropped his box. Files where everywhere, misplaced with odd papers and folders shoved haphazardly into boxes. Dust covered every inch, with the ground so littered that he would have to take careful, decisive steps to avoid stumbling and crashing like a game of Minesweeper. Perhaps he should have taken Tim up on his offer for help. He whistled, shocked, but couldn’t help his pondering on whether he would see any more spiders in this abandoned section of the Institute.

“Good for you, Eliot,” he sighed, beginning his perilous venture, “bad for Jonathan. Don’t you worry, I won’t let him kill any of them. Even… even if he hates me for it…” A grimace twisted over his expression let out an exasperated breath. “Why am I so defensive over something that biologically can’t love me back?” 

The question was left unanswered as he moved to find the desks Elias had spoken of. He liked to think spiders listened and understood, despite knowing better. They just made him feel less lonely sometimes, but now he had Tim and Sasha to keep him company. 

Still, he felt bad for what he had said seconds prior. “I’m sorry, Eliot, I didn’t mean that. I’m sure you appreciate me. You haven’t bitten me yet, so I’m taking that as a sign of our mutual trust.”

When he noticed the desks at last, he smiled, relief flooding him; the box was growing a bit too heavy in his arms and he could really use a break at the moment. “Alright, Eliot,” he told his spider friend, “you and I are going to get comfortable here. I bet there are lots of little critters around here for you to—  _ GAH _ !”

In his talking, he didn’t have the mental wherewithal to notice one of the files lying on the ground. He stepped on it, the folder slipping across the carpet with ease causing Martin to lose his balance. The weight of the box tipped him forward, and with a squeak so uncharacteristic of such a large man, he crashed to the ground, the box spilling its contents over the floor.

“Oh piss off!” he cursed quietly, moving to his knees to assess the damage. Probably the most shattered was his confidence in himself, but he’d find a band-aid for that in the form of a nature documentary and some tea. The mug tea hadn’t made it, unfortunately, but the mug was still intact. Books and the like had fallen, some stained, while others thankfully remained dry. The plant wasn’t looking too good, unfortunately, its soil spilling out and the ceramic of the pot now cracked and chipped, but thankfully still intact.

A sudden wave of despair overcame when he realized Eliot’s web was there, most likely destroyed. He lifted the pot quickly and secured the plant, placing it on the nearest desk and inspecting it closely to see how bad the damage was. 

Torn threads hung limply from the leaves, and Martin could only wish he had the ability to somehow remake the web so Eliot wouldn’t have to. Speaking of, he gave the pot a slow twirl, searching for the spider in question. “Eliot?” Panic skyrocketed to his chest when he realized that the false widow was nowhere to be seen amongst the foliage. “Eliot?!” He didn’t know why he was calling for him, as if spiders could somehow retreat back like dogs to their owners. He had to stop and shiver at the thought. No, he didn’t own Eliot. That… that just felt weird; Eliot was just his little buddy. A friend, not a pet.

After checking his shoes for the telltale splatter of spider guts, he searched the ground for any sign of the spider. “If I saved you from Jonathan only to crush you myself— ohhh I don’t know if I’d ever forgive myself. I don’t know if he’d be pissed or happy— ahhh I really shouldn’t be thinking about that right now— Eliot?!”

He felt a tug then. It was odd, like he was having his own thread pulled by something, bringing his gaze to the far wall. A good twenty feet away was Eliot, sitting on the wall beside a doorway. It was most certainly Eliot, and not another identical spider, Martin was somehow sure of this, even if it should have been impossible for the false widow to get that far in such a short time. “How on Earth…?” He strode closer, flinching when the spider suddenly scuttled from his spot on the wall and through a little crack between the door and the frame like a little shit. He cursed, stopping before the entrance to reevaluate his priorities. Did Eliot not want him anymore (want him? Now  _ he  _ felt like the pet ( _ our little Martin  _ ( **_be a good boy and move with our strings_ ** ))? Stupid notion really, and he tried to scold himself for it, but he knows he never quite grew up from that spider phase in his youth. He felt a connection, no matter what the doctors told him.

Said doorway was made of solid oak, a metal latch keeping it closed that would definitely take a few extra steps to unlock. It seemed to be made to keep things locked inside instead of outside, something that only heightened the man’s nerves, as the large bold letters of “ **ARTIFACT STORAGE** ” pasted to its front was not a calming sight to begin with.

He swallowed, steeling himself. “It’s just a bunch of inanimate objects,” he told himself, already pulling the latch open. “Thinking they can harm you is… is just as silly as talking to spiders.” He opened the door, flicking the lights on.

Oh, and he thought the main archives were huge. At least those were simply papers, easily stored and put away into neat little cabinets. It was a far more complicated story when these files were instead material objects, ranging from a tiny ring to a full blown sofa just lying against the far wall. Each item had a label, all put into odd little sections, the reason for their placement not quite clear, and it didn’t really make anything more organized.

“Just find Eliot and get out. That simple. Things will be okay,” he sighed, bringing himself up with his usual pep talk to instill confidence. It worked surprisingly often, given he didn’t really have anyone else to raise his confidence for him. 

He moved carefully around each object. He was sure they weren’t actually haunted, but he wasn’t really wanting to test his luck at the moment upon seeing that none of the artifacts had a single speck of dust on them. They were all spotless, as though they had just recently been cleaned. The superstitious side of him came to the conclusion that something as low as dust wasn’t  _ allowed  _ to fall upon them, upon a cursed ( _ blessed _ ) object that someone or something had decided to bring into the world. 

Another door to his left was locked tight, this time requiring a key to enter. “ **WARNING: LEITNERS** ” was what obtrusive red sign. Martin gave a small “huh” at the sight. “That, ahh… that’s comforting, I guess. Thanks for that.”

Turning back in his spot, his eyes searched for Eliot, finally noticing him after a full minute of frustration. He was sitting on a tabletop, watching as spiders had this odd habit of doing with Martin and no one else. He and Martin had a small staring competition where the human glared in hopes of somehow making a spider feel shame. “Just chilling there, hmm? Having a snooze?” 

Walking over, he laid his hand out on the table expectantly, allowing Eliot to crawl on and up to the safety of his shoulder. In his place, however, he left a trail of silk, connecting from Martin’s hand to a small object.

It was a curved upholstery sewing needle as sharp as the day it was manufactured. It looked pristine and bore no label, unlike every other object. Surely something so small couldn’t actually be considered an artifact, though he had difficulty imagining someone coming down here with a sewing needle of all things and placing it randomly about. Without much thought, he picked it up. “I’m not going to fall into a deep sleep if I prick my finger, am I?” 

Despite his jesting, he felt himself oddly pulled to the needle, turning it over in his hands to inspect the unique design he soon discovered engraved into the tiny edges. Eyes, eight of them, four on each side, were carved along its sides. Martin found it hard to believe anyone could fit such small images on something so narrow, but as he ran his thumb over the eyes, he could feel every detail from the tiny indentations of the pupils to the barely-noticeable striations that made up the irises. It looked pretty sturdy, all things considered, and Martin would be lying if he said he didn’t want to keep it. He was proficient in sewing, after all, and fancied he could make a few decent leather accessories with its help. It just drew him, for some reason, and the eight eyes reminded him of spiders, just his kind of aesthetic. He bit his lip, feeling guilty about what he was about to do, but he honestly didn’t think anyone would miss a simple sewing needle. And if someone did? He would just magically “find” it. So with this in mind, he pocketed the needle.

“MARTIN!”

Martin nearly severed his bottom lip with his sudden realization. “Oh bloody— I have a job!” he swore, making haste up out of storage, keeping a hand cupped over Eliot so as to not have him fly off.

Jon was waiting for him, hand firmly on his hips as he stood before the messy pile that had spilled from his overturned box. He shot Martin a shrewd, piercing glare. “Do you mind explaining to me why you’re rifling down in Artifact Storage without disposing of the mess you’ve made?”

No way was Martin about to explain that he was chasing down Eliot. Jon would have his head. “I was trying to find a broom,” he lied with relative ease. “For the soil.”

Jon’s brow arched in doubt. “A broom?” he parroted. Martin nodded. “In Artifact Storage?” Martin paused this time, swallowing. Okay, good point. Even still, he nodded confidently. Jon didn’t let up, however. “Alright then…. where is it?”

“Where is what?”

“The  _ broom _ , Martin.”

Nice. Okay. He could handle this. All Martin needed to do was walk out and never show his face again. Too bad the archives didn’t have any windows or else he would make a dive that would surely win him olympic gold.

“Turns out there wasn’t a broom in there,” he said simply, shifting his weight anxiously, and  _ oh  _ the stare that earned him. Elias had a stare that made him feel out of place, but Jon’s piercing gaze was somehow so much worse, as though he were hurting a part of his own family.

Whatever Jon had to say to that was reduced to silence, his chin tilting up as he warily stared at the spider on Martin’s shoulder. “Just… just clean this up, Martin,” was all he could say before he turned to leave.

Martin bit his lip, ashamed, but didn’t speak up, instead going to do as asked. Every so often, he’d stop, taking a moment to feel the needle in his pocket. He didn’t know why it seemed to call to him, but he was glad he had taken it.

* * *

_ “Almost done here.”  _

_ That voice. He knew it but couldn’t recognize it all at the same time. Those eyes. Electric blue. So many. An unwavering, unblinking gaze of a not-spider. _

_ A whimper left his throat as he felt the needle pierce through the back of his neck once more, threads of silk running through his flesh and yet remaining spotless despite the dribbles of blood that bubbled up from each hole. He intimately knew the way the needle curved, gliding through his flesh; he could count each engraved eye that entered and exited his skin, their irises burning his flesh as they literally saw inside him. Their pupils were moving. _

_ ( **Very good, Martin. You’re doing so well for us.** ) _

_ Dark hands could be seen emerging from behind him, a reminder that there was a culprit sewing their threads through his neck. This culprit was not a spider. They wielded silk as though they had the privilege to do so. Their eyes watched but these eyes came in many and not the arrays of eight he was so familiar with. They invaded, not comforted. Their silk was inside his body and it agonized him. _

_ The not-spider was wrapping the threads around Martin’s head and over his eyes, starting at the bridge of his nose and twirling around the back of his skull, slowly creating a blindfold of white silk. His eyes were being bound, silk sealing his eyes shut. He could feel the web against his eyes. And yet when the blindfold was as thick as cloth, he could still see the eyes, and they Saw him back. They saw him inside and out, and the comforts of the silk web he loved had  let them  see him. He was handed over without fuss, allowed to have this blindfold wrapped and woven around his skin. _

_ And yet he did not resist.  _

_ ( **You’re such a good hatchling for us. We love you for it.** ) _

_ Martin let out a low whine as the needle pierced through the base of his neck once more, further anchoring the blindfold to his body. He wanted to scream. He wanted to cry. He wanted to see whomever was behind him, even if their gaze would destroy him on the spot as he knew it would. _

_ But he was not alone. _

_ He was loved. _

_ “Thank you,” was all he could rasp, wincing once more as the needle was dragged through his flesh. _

* * *

The first thing Martin did upon waking up was going to the bathroom to vomit. 

He would have called in sick, if it wasn’t for the needle that he had put down on his nightstand. He clocked in at the Institute, went down to Artifact Storage, pulled out the needle, and delicately placed it back where he had found it. “I’m sorry for stealing your needle,” was all he could really give as an apology. Whom he said this to, he didn’t know. All he really knew was that he left with little intention of going back into that storage room unless absolutely necessary.

So imagine his surprise when he came home to find it on his nightstand once more, pristine as ever. His neck ached at the sight. He could not see it, but he could feel the thread that bound his eyes and anchored into his body.

Martin knew that if he tried to bring the tool through leather, it would allow no such thing. And yet knew, almost certainly, that it could glide through flesh with ease.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Martin: *signs contract*
> 
> Eliot: Swiggity swooty Elias now owns your booty


	5. Statement of (((Does It Matter?)))

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The archives are now up an running again as the group get to sorting statements over the coming months. From technology failures to sewing practice, Martin is able to keep himself busy as things go along.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking a while. This is a pretty long chapter.
> 
> We’re now in season 1 territory and the ball is now rolling. Prepare for Martin to have an interesting time.

No one else could see it, and yet Martin felt self-conscious simply standing within the company of others. He could still see perfectly clearly; he still took notice of everyone’s threads and the small little details of their day to day, from outfit to whether or not Tim regretted getting that sandwich from the corner store (he most certainly always did). Whenever Martin caught a glimpse of his reflection, however, he would wince at the newest addition to his features.

A thin blindfold had been threaded over his eyes; it wasn’t particularly covering, but it was still there, and he loathed how every loop of the string was threaded through the flesh on the back of his neck, anchoring it to his body. It wasn’t painful, but he could feel each thread that had slid into his skin. He knew it wasn’t real and simply phantom pains from remembering his rather nasty nightmare, but the fact didn’t make him feel any better.

These webs did not feel comforting; the blindfold felt like a collar a dog would have around its neck. He didn’t understand (couldn’t understand why he felt ( **_owned_ **)).

He knew it was because he took the needle. He’d tried to bring it back several times, but like a burden one could not shed, it stayed with him. He could tell Elias, obviously, but he was sure the relief of having a needle away from him was a pro far outweighed by the con of losing his job, ergo losing the only way to care for his mother. That itself led to the thought that someone would soon find out and finger him for it and that paranoia only heightened his nerves. He had to wonder what sort of merciful hand of fate kept him from bumbling out of the job. 

Whatever it was, it had given him a chance, and he wasn’t going to give up on himself until his time came. 

Speaking of…

Despite his close attention to his friends, he had somehow failed to recognize the rising tension in the archives. He wasn’t exactly prepared when Tim and Sasha cornered him at his desk.

“Hey Martin,” Tim greeted, tone flat without a hint of emotion. His voice was like cold granite against the blonde’s nerves.

Martin audibly squeaked in surprise, eyes blown wide as he spun in his chair to glance up at Tim beside him. A hand on his hip, Tim did not look pleased. Martin swallowed, a sudden fearful feeling rising in his chest, knowing that somehow he had done something wrong. He moved to leave his desk, only to find Sasha blocking his path as well, arms folded and looking highly disappointed. “There’s something you haven’t been telling us, Martin.”

Martin looked between them, and then it dawned on him. They knew about his CV. They knew and they had already told Jon and Elias and he was now capital “f” Fucked. His mouth hung open in a fruitless attempt to get out an explanation.

There was nary a warning when Tim slammed a hand down on the table, getting a cry out of Martin. “Did you really think you could get away with hiding a secret like this? We _know_ , Martin!”’ Martin was on the verge of tears. If he lost his job, there was doubt that legal charges would be pressed against him. He couldn’t afford to pay for that, rent, _and_ his mother’s care. Martin would be lucky if he could even beg Elias to forget him. Oh god and the _shame_ his mother would feel in him, knowing that she was right about him being _incompetent_ and _weird_ and just a _bad son_. She would finally put herself in a nursing home just to get away from him, and he didn’t know if he would be even able to continue functioning if she left. 

It was all over for him.

Whatever expression he portrayed, it definitely alarmed Sasha, as her serious façade broke to glance at the other interrogator. “Okay, Tim, I think we’re scaring him.”

Tim’s brow shot up to his hairline and immediately he laid off the act, taking a hand to lay on Martin’s arm and stepping back when he flinched. “Whoa whoa, Marto, we were playing around! We were just wondering why you didn’t tell us today was your birthday.”

“M-my birthday?” Martin blinked, slowly processing what was said before he let out an agonized groan. “You guys are _such_ _assholes_ ,” he complained, getting a laugh from Tim.

Sasha patted him on the shoulder, contact that he was glad for this time. “Sorry, buddy. We didn’t think you’d be so freaked out. Are you okay?”

Although his cheeks were dusted red from slight embarrassment, he was just relieved things weren’t as bad as he initially believed. “Yeah yeah, I’m fine,” he sighed, still a bit shaken, but more playfully annoyed than anything. “How’d you find out when my birthday was?”

Sasha smiled, pulling out her purse. “Elias told us ahead of time. Said he thought you’d need some cheering up. Also! Tim and I got you a little something.”

Martin immediately became bashful, fussing over how Sasha spent money on him. “Oh you didn't have to! It’s just—“ He took back his words upon seeing the presents in question, letting out a gasp.

Sasha had done the honor of giving him a cute ceramic mug, all burnt orange and with the small head and horns of a highland cow sticking out on one side, and the tail sticking out of the other to form the handle. Before he could cry over how cute it was, Tim set down a little Lucas the Spider brand plush spider toy. All Martin could do was make incomprehensible high-pitched noises, about to lose his mind over how cute they were. He didn’t think he would be able to deny such generous gifts if his life depended on it. “Oh, guys! This is too much—!”

Tim just gave him a good slap on the back. “Hey, nothing’s ever too much for a friend. How do you feel about ice cream afterwards? And before you protest about us not needing to treat you, you can think of it as a side celebration for the promotion we all got.”

Martin considered this for about half a second before he decided he deserved the treat and answered with a firm nod. “I’d love to!”

Sasha beamed, her joy radiating onto Martin like sunlight. “Lovely! I take the tube home, so after work the three of us can just hop in Tim’s ride and go to Amy’s Parlor just a bit away.”

This was where Martin had to stop a moment and consider the offer once more. He couldn’t help his heating cheeks when he thought about Jon possibly entering the equation. He would be awfully lonely, and given that they all worked closely together now, it would be nice to invite Jon as a friend. “Just the three of us?” he had to ask, hoping they wouldn’t pry but still got the hint. Oh but Tim was Tim as always.

“Who else?” the brunette asked seconds before his brow hiked up. He looked in the direction of Jon’s office, which was positioned on the other end of the archive. Jon was in the recording room at the moment, but even if he was at his desk and closer to the noise, he would be as oblivious as always. That’s why Martin wanted him to come; it would be nice to see Jon not elbow deep in his work. But Tim wasn’t having it without dramatically expressing his disbelief. “Wait. You’re not serious. _Him?_ Why?” 

Always the master of lies, Martin answered smoothly, “Well, you know, I just— well, I thought that maybe he would be lonely or something, I dunno. I just, ah, thought it would be nice and it’s nothing personal I assure you, I’d just maybe like him to tag along kinda maybe?”

He shut up when Sasha placed a hand on his shoulder, an understanding yet devious look clear across her face. Somehow she had seen through his bulletproof excuses. Perhaps it was the six months of obvious pining for a coworker that tipped her and Tim off. “Don’t worry, Martin. We _completely_ understand. I’ll go invite him; can’t say he’ll come, though.”

Martin let out a tense sigh of relief as Sasha went to speak with Jon, letting the silence settle in some before he glanced up at Tim, who no longer looked to be in a playful mood. In a worried tone, Tim told him, “Again, sorry about spooking you there.” A nod and a shrug was what he got in a response, so he continued. “You sure everything’s alright, Marto? If you ever need to tell me anything or get something off your chest, I’m always here for you, bud. Archive assistants for life.” 

Martin didn’t quite know what to say to that. The pressure was great on his shoulders, but he was hot off a near panic attack. He didn’t think he could handle another one. But Tim… Tim was something else. 

Tim seemed to have gotten some sort of unintentional cue, as his tone was warm and dropped low when he said, “Martin, this stays just between you and me. Unless you’ve legit killed someone, Elias and Jon will never hear a word of it.” He beamed a smile down at Martin. It felt so nice to see such warmth. “I’m your friend.”

Martin blinked, processing the words. 

(He’s ( **_our_ **) friend.)

Martin felt a smile flick over his lips as his nerves seemed to settle a bit. Like a spider building its web between the branches of a tree, Tim snapping and falling would bring Martin’s entire next crashing down, but Martin knew this wouldn’t happen. That branch would be there, sturdy for him to latch on to, and his leaves would protect him from the rain. Despite all his prior fretting about being watched and discovered, in the archives, he was starting to gain this feeling of being welcomed. This was his ( **_nest_ **) and he was safe here.

Realizing he was staring, Martin cleared his throat, getting out of his seat. “Y-yeah, of course. Uh, later, though,” he suggested, letting Tim at least know he trusted him enough. “I’ll message you later after the ice cream thing, okay?”

Tim gave a thumbs up and a nod, putting the subject aside. “No problem. And afterwards, we can talk about a team-coordinated attack on the boss. His special day is coming up in a couple of months, you know.”

Sasha cleared her throat as she entered the room once more, gesturing to her throat so that they would cut the discussion of Jon’s birthday, as Jon himself was soon in tow. His coat slung over his arm, he looked tired and disinterested in the real world as per usual, but a tad bit more relaxed. Tim looked impressed, and Martin was right there beside him. Jon? Not working and choosing to socialize? No, Sasha no doubt had him at gunpoint. Either way, Martin was happy to see him. He knew the coming days would be okay. He had a few sturdy branches to latch on to when the rain may pour.

* * *

 _(Statement #▓▓▓▓▓▓▓ of ▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓ regarding the abandonment of her hatching._ )

(Who?)

( **_She doesn’t matter anymore._ **)

( _Dated: The day he was born_.)

He had meant to tell her about it sooner, but around his birthday she became reclusive and barely spoke to him. He didn’t blame her; she was sick and needed alone time when she felt her worst. He had spent his birthday with his friends, which was a first for him, but he still felt guilty about leaving her all alone while he got ice cream with the lads.

Martin finished pouring the milk into the glass, a smile on his face despite the dream he had the night before. With a delicate clink, the milk was set before his mother; she didn’t like when he was unnecessarily loud, so he took care to put things in their proper place. “Something big happened a few days back, mum,” he smiled giddily, placing the breakfast before her. She immediately picked up her toast slathered with beans, taking a chunk out of it and not bothering to swallow before she answered. “What?”

He couldn’t help his grin, happy she was taking interest. “I got promoted to archival assistant,” he said cheerily, sitting across the table with his own food. “It’s a pretty good raise.”

His mum pursed her lips, and for the first time in a while there was a hint of a smile. “Does that mean you’ll be able to buy me that armchair I want?”

Her son could only smile, digging into his own breakfast and speaking between swallows. “Yes, in the future, of course, but I was thinking maybe we could celebrate! Next Sunday, I mean. I could take you out and have lunch and we can spend some time together.”

Whatever interest had initially been there had withered, her expression sagging some. “Ah, I would love to, Martin, but I’ve been rather tired as of late,” she said with the smoothness of someone who had used that exact line hundreds of times before. He didn’t mind; with her illness, going out in public may be hazardous to her. Even if it would have been nice to take her out, her comfort was more important. 

“That’s alright,” Martin hummed, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin. “I’ll just bring you something tonight. After I get your medicine or course. Oh, and with me going out a lot more, I’ll probably have loads more stories to tell. This researching gig apparently gets more up close and personal than before. I’m sure to meet more interesting people along the way.”

His mother didn’t reply, instead looking at her food in mild disgust. “Did you put onions in my hash? You know I don’t like onions.” 

As soon as she pushed the plate away, he popped up in embarrassment, already scolding himself as he took the plate back. “Sorry! Sorry, I’ll, ahh, I’ll remake it for you.”

His mother let out a tired exhale, putting up a hand. “No, Martin, just… help me back to my room. And shut the door behind you this time; you keep forgetting to do that.”

“Ah, sorry, sorry. I’ll try not to forget again.”

“Sure you will,” his mother snarked, sending an all too familiar pang of guilt through Martin. All he wanted was to make his mother happy and proud of him.

( _And you will._ )

* * *

_Statement #0122204 of Nathan Watts, regarding an encounter on Old Fishmarket Close, Edinburgh, 22/04/12_

Martin had tried to figure out why the statement Jon had tried to orally record wasn’t processing on the computer, but his eyes were going to melt if he looked at a computer screen for too long. They had tried several times to record and rerecord one of Gertrude’s statements, and yet after the first few paragraphs, the audio recording would stop unexpectedly and the file would be corrupted. Martin had to commend Jon’s persistence, though, as he tried what had to be a hundred times to get the thing running. The words “Statement of Nathan Watts” was slowly burned into the assistant’s mind to later appear in his nightmares. It didn’t make sense, as other statements were recorded without a hitch and stored easily, but for some reason the system wasn’t budging for this one drunk’s recounting of a late night spook.

Jon’s breaking point was when his laptop finally shut off, much to his bewilderment. Yes, it was plugged in, and no, it was not restarting for an ungodly amount of time as Windows tended to do. Thankfully Tim was proficient in computers, but it also meant he had to deliver the bad news.

“Oof. It’s fried, boss,” Tim shook his head, shutting the laptop. “Gonna have to get a professional to look this up. So, um… remember when I said you could use my laptop? Well… I kinda revoke that right, now.”

Jon had to keep himself from tearing his own hair out, now running a hand through said hair. Martin couldn’t help but notice a couple of gray strands that had appeared in the locks of black. While he felt pity for Jon graying at his age, he couldn’t help but be amused by how much they reminded him of spider silk.

He needed to cool it with the spider comparisons, but he couldn’t help that he found them to be so neat.

Meanwhile, Jon let out a sigh of frustration, and so Martin took this as his time to make tea. “Honestly, what is going on?” he could hear Jon muttering from the break room. 

Tim piped up then. “I can tell you what’s going on.”

“Tim if you say ‘something spooky’, I _will_ fire you on the spot.”

“Ah, nevermind then. I’ll go see if I can dig something up.” 

“Good luck. Gertrude hadn’t recorded any of her statements as far as I could find. A joke, honestly…”

Tim audibly passed by the break room, where Martin had finished filling the kettle and had put it on to boil. From there it wasn’t too long until he had finished the tea, pouring four cups to each individual’s liking.

He passed by each desk to set down a cup, before coming to Jon’s prim and proper workspace and handed the mug over. Jon took it with only a sigh, taking a sip. Martin saw his eyes close and knew it was from the comforting warmth of warm ceramic relaxing him. After a moment he looked up to Martin, expression stolid. “I’m having Tim and Sasha work on follow-up. It would be of big help if you could continue working on fixing this audio problem.” He exhaled slowly, fixing back onto his tea. “Not sure what I can do in the meantime other than continue cleaning up this hurricane debris-ridden Archive.”

Martin’s frown was sympathetic as he found himself looking around for a solution to Jon’s predicament.

He wasn’t sure what drew him to his own desk, but he decided it was worth a shot to randomly open the drawers he had yet to keep his own supplies in. In the bottom drawer on the left leg of his desk was the answer to their problem.

It was an old-school handheld tape recorder. He couldn’t be too surprised about seeing it, given Gertrude’s age, but it was still a fossil he had to stop and appreciate. The old thing was so abandoned that it was covered in cobwebs. Martin didn’t mind, but he knew better than to mention to Jon about it. It might as well be haunted in that case. 

Maybe that’s why it was untouched; perhaps it was cursed. He doubted such a thing to be haunted. Besides, if spiders crawled on it, wouldn’t they be haunted to? Did spirits even care about spiders? He hoped not. Spiders had enough to deal with what with people being so afraid of them. 

He picked up the recorder without hesitation and wiped the dust and web off on his khakis. Jon would be proud of him for finding a solution to a problem he hadn’t caused himself.

“Retro, but I’ve always been into that lo-fi aesthetic,” he told himself as he walked back over to Jon’s office.

Jon looked up disinterestedly as Martin approached, brow quirked at the object in his hand. The assistant held it up triumphantly, and when Jon recognized the device, believe it or not, his expression fell further than what was his usual countenance. Part of the irritation was directed at Martin, but a vast majority of it was no doubt in regret of the fact that he was indeed considering recording with such a fossil. 

“You’re bluffing…” he muttered, despite taking it anyways.

His assistant could only shrug with an amused hum. From there, Martin went on his fruitless quest to fix whatever was going on with the digital recordings.

* * *

_Statement #9982211 of Joshua Gellespie regarding his time in the possession of an apparently empty wooden casket, 22/11/1998_

By now the first disgruntled statement of their endless effort had been filed away, and with that Jon had started on a new one. Sasha and Tim had been given a few miniscule follow-up tasks, with Martin asked to do some cleaning around to at least get things a bit more organized. He asked if he could be of more help, but his boss had assured him that this would be enough. Martin didn’t argue, knowing that contributing in itself was rewarding.

As he would place boxes in their proper order, he couldn’t help but hear Jon’s frustration through the walls each time the digital recording failed. He would find it funny if he didn’t have to hear it over and over again.

Jon must have finally given up and put his trust into the tape recorder again, as soon there were no more paragraphs cut off by dramatic sighs. Instead, the archivist’s words came out smoothly, words muffled and unintelligible through the thick wall that divided them. Even still, the drone of his voice was a comforting one for Martin to hear as he organized, noticing how relaxed he sounded whilst reading the statement, as opposed to the curt, stiff, and clippy tone that one usually associated with his voice. Martin realized his boss didn’t even sound like himself, instead almost imitating whatever emotions the man in the statement was saying. He didn’t know that Jonathan had such a profound liking to (probably) fictional literature. “I wonder if he likes poetry,” he couldn’t help but smile, looking over at Eliot, who rested lazily on his web.

He found listening to Jon to be oddly relaxing, silently wishing he had a podcast with only Jon’s voice so he could have something to soothe him as he cleaned. Was that weird? Yeah, that was weird, as decreed by Martin. 

The recording ended as Martin placed another box on his desk, opening it up as Jon was exiting the recording room. Martin was initially perplexed upon seeing an array of personal items within what was supposed to be a box of statements, up until Jon took notice. “Oh, apologies,” Jon muttered, approaching and taking the box to his own desk office, where Matin followed. “I have yet to finish setting my supplies up, given I’ve been busy with reorganizing everything.” He set a few of the items down, one of them being a picture frame. Martin leaned over some to get a subtle glance at the image, only to find the only occupants were a red-headed woman and (the main focus of the picture) a white Persian cat, lying lazily on the zoomed in lap of the woman. 

Martin couldn’t help himself. “Oh what a cute kitty!” he chimed up, getting a nonplussed look from an annoyed Jon. “What’s his name?”

Jon simply shook his head and went back to unpacking. “That,” he said simply, “is The Admiral. Have some respect.”

Martin would have laughed at that joke if it wasn’t for the dead serious tone it was accompanied with. “Oh, yes, of course, ha,” was all he could awkwardly muster out.

Jon suddenly made a look of disgust upon pulling out a green sweater vest, holding it away from his body between two fingers. “What is this doing here?” he scowled, turning it to further inspect its flaws. “I thought I’d asked Tim to throw this out ages ago?” He huffed, looking to Tim’s desk as if the assistant were still there and able to take the blame. “No doubt a bit of teasing on his end.” 

Martin was initially perplexed by the reaction to the article until he saw the darkened stain that was splashed over its front. It was the same sweater vest Jon had been wearing when Martin accidentally spilled tea all over him. Lovely, as if the assistant didn’t already scold himself over that enough, now he finds out that Jon had kept it this entire time. As much as he didn’t want to draw Jon’s ire from the horrid memory, he cleared his throat. “I can get rid of that if you want. Just a quick trip to the back.”

Jon didn’t hesitate to hand it over, not looking at Martin as he began finishing up his unpacking. “That would be appreciated. If possible, incinerate it.”

Martin gave a curt nod. “Will do.”

While he was secretly up for doing some incinerating, he was simply happy to help Jon out in any way he could, especially with a problem _he_ had caused. 

It was as he was approaching the bin in the back that he took in the design of the clothing in his hands. 

It was woolen, containing that classic layered diamond pattern on the front that showed off a multitude of colors from blue to dark brown. The texture of the fabric was tightly knit and comfortable on his skin. Certain diamond shapes that were untouched by the tea closely resembled the color of Jon’s skin. It would be a shame to throw away such rich fabric, with each shape and seam drawn together through an endless array of threads and interwoven with each other (quite like a web ( **_skin made of threads to be pulled_ **)).

He hadn’t realized he had been beside the wheelie bin for a tad too long until the smell finally got to him and snapped him out of it. With a sigh, he opened the lid, ready to toss the vest in. He couldn’t bring himself to do so, in the end. Instead, he put it to the side. Don’t ask him why, he didn’t know, either. When the day ended, he retrieved it and brought it home.

What he was going to do with it? He didn’t know ( _yet_ ); he just felt bad about wasting the fabric. He folded it up, placing it in the back corner of his closet and laying the needle atop it.

He closed the door and went to bed, dreaming of needles running through fabric, making a shape he could not tell for the thread was too small and the sheet was too large. Somewhere in the background, he heard a pained groan.

He didn’t know if he could forgive himself if anyone ever found out about it.

( _Don’t be ashamed_ ( **_It’s natural for us_ **)).

He still didn’t throw it away despite his shame. It was really good fabric.

* * *

_Statement #0070107 of Amy Patel, regarding the alleged disappearance of her acquaintance Graham Folger, 1/1/2007_

Sasha and Tim were once again chosen for another statement, and at this point, Martin was sure Jon was actively avoiding giving him work. While he did indeed do a couple things here and there, they were mostly menial tasks. Because of this, Martin had gotten into the habit of listening to Jon’s voice through the walls of the recording room as he worked. It was such a soothing sound, though he always hated how Jon seemed to change demeanor would flip like a switch when recording. It just didn’t feel like him; like the voice was actually the one in the statement instead of the Jon he knew. Well, kind of knew. Jon would be a complete mystery to him if it wasn’t for the threads he could see.

“Have you seen Jonathan’s threads?” he asked softly to Eliot as he typed away. Eliot did not respond, only pausing some as he was feasting on a bug. “He doesn’t have a lot.”

He stopped his work, folding his arms on the desk to watch Eliot skitter. He felt eyes on him, but that was no doubt because of the cameras. Anyone could look at the feed for this room and notice that Martin was slacking off and talking to a spider. “But the ones he does have are strong, which I think is nice. The people he does have, he keeps close. He has a surprisingly strong connection to Elias, did you know?”

He looked over idly. “Not with me, though. I haven’t seen one between us,” he tried to feel upset, but it came out as numb. It wasn’t like he hadn’t expected it, but still, after seven months, you would think a silk string or two would have formed. “Maybe I should—“ His trap shut quickly upon noticing a tape recorder nearby. It was just like the one Jon used, though Martin swore he had seen him walking into the recording room with the one Martin had found.

“Well. I didn’t know there were two of you,” he said, surprise evident in his voice. “Did Tim find you?” Getting up from his desk, he strolled over and picked up the device, alarm soon shooting through him upon realizing that the red button was depressed. It was recording. “Oh ho, no, we’re not letting anyone hear any of that,” he said, popping out the cassette and pocketing it. “I wonder who left you on?”

* * *

_Statement #0132806 of Dominic Swain regarding a book briefly in his possession in the winter of 2012, 28/06/2013_

“Martin, I’m going to have you check for any records of a book called ‘ _Ex Altiora_ ’. Can you do this for me?”

When those words left Jon’s lips, a mix of excitement and Earth-shaking nervousness ran through Martin. Of course he agreed; it was his job, after all. But this was his chance to finally prove to both Jon and himself that he was worthy of the position. 

So one could understand why he began freaking out when he couldn’t find a single record of a book titled ‘ _Ex Altiora_ ’ everywhere he searched. Not a thing. The book was supposedly sold in didn’t keep track of what titles were sold. He checked, double checked, _triple checked_ , **_quadruple checked_ ** everything, but couldn’t even scrounge up an interview with the statement-giver himself. Jon would no doubt be disappointed, especially given this was a _Leitner_ . While he didn’t know a lot about them, he knew they were supposedly dangerous and that Jon was _really_ adamant about finding information on the book. Admittedly it took longer than it should have but he certainly did a lot of double checking.

When he finally reported back to Jon about not finding anything, his boss’ unimpressed look did little to comfort him. Jon had this way of looking at him as he did with many: this shrewd, calculating yet critical gaze that made Martin feel small, despite him being a great deal bigger than his new boss. A look that seemed to scream “don’t be surprised if it turns out I yell at puppies in my spare time” (if he even has spare time, with how much he works ( _such an Archivist_ )). The worst part was how Jon’s gaze would never waver for the endless seconds, taking his time in opening up Martin with his eyes and searching for his secrets. He felt as though he were being undressed by Jon’s eyes in the unsexiest interpretation of the phrase. Martin’s paranoia made itself known once more as he began to wonder if his superior had found out about him lying on his CV.

“You certainly took your sweet time,” Jon finally hummed, taking the report Martin had placed before him and smoothly sliding it so the side, having read it thoroughly and agonizingly slowly in Martin’s presence. “Which is why I had decided to have Sasha double check. Just to see if your work is up to snuff and that you aren’t spending work hours dawdling with spiders.”

Martin would say he was getting tired of this running joke, but it wouldn’t really work given the context of Jon being a humorless man as well as the fact that it was a pretty valid statement. Instead, he felt his heart begin to pound at the mention of Sasha double checking. What if she found something he didn’t? What if Martin was really as incompetant as Jon saw him as? He didn’t think he would be able to take the humiliation. He might as well cut all threads he had to the institute and go crawl in a hole to be forgotten. 

Jon took his elbows off of his desk, sitting back in his chair. “She was unable to dig up anything, either, unfortunately,” he sighed, his frustration more aimed at the situation than Martin. “For now we’ll halt all follow-up, but I will have to bring this up with Elias.” 

Martin shouldn’t have been so relieved that no progress had been made. “Oh, well, that’s not, er, good. Not good at all. I’m sorry.”

Jon merely exhaled, looking towards the messy box of files on his desk in disdain. Martin’s sympathy went out to those files. Finally, Jon said, “Well, there’s nothing left to do but move on now.” A sharp look flicked up to Martin. “That is all. Get back to work.” 

Martin gave a curt nod and walked to the break room to get some recovery tea. 

As he did so, he decided to calm himself by looking at the web. Tim and Sasha were doing well with things between them, and he noticed that Sasha’s thread with Jon was still pretty weak after the blow that was her being skipped over as promotion to Head Archivist. Understandable, but at least things seemed to be getting on better.

Tim must have had a falling out with Rosie, as that tie had gotten noticeably weaker, but he was sure it would recover. The string connected to Martin was probably one of the strongest Martin had, and it made him smile to be able to see the developing friendship before him.

He couldn’t help but realize that he had suddenly gained another tie as well. A thin, barely visible string that was taut and looked ready to snap at even the slightest touch.

He followed the thread with his eyes and a raised brow and a smile, giving it the lightest tap to see who it belonged to. He had to physically slap a hand over his mouth when he realized it was connected directly to Jon, their tie now joining the endless web that connected everyone together. He swallowed, taking it in. “So…” He felt hope rise and a smile soon cross his face. “So you’re saying I have a chance?”

* * *

 _Statement #0092302 of Kieran Woodward regarding items recovered from the refuse of 93 Lancaster Rd. Walthamstow, 03/02/2009_

Martin was only just beginning to wonder if there were really ninety-two thousand three hundred one other statements before there was a knock on the door.

Putting on his most professional attitude, he took in a deep breath and went to welcome in Mr. Woodward. He wanted to be as thorough as possible with this task, as Jon was counting on him.

“Get familiar with the statement,” the archivist had ordered, having not even spared a glance at Martin. “I want you to set up an interview with Mr. Woodward and follow up on his account of this statement. Be sure to note every detail, even if redundant.”

Martin felt excited knowing that Jon trusted him with an interview, and given that it would be recorded, he knew his boss would be combing through his work with a critical overview. 

A knock at the door and he was up on his feet, coming to welcome the guest in. “Mr. Woodward!” he greeted with cheer. “Thank you ever so much for coming in. I know it’s been a few years, but your testimony is always appreciated.”

Mr. Woodward smiled in kind and they sat down for the interview. He was an older man with kind, yet tired eyes. He smelled faintly of spoiled food, and within his place on the web, a couple of strands looped his torso. They went over a few details before getting down to the questions. The digital recorder was thankfully working, so Keiran wouldn’t have to see the downgrade in technology they’ve recently had to resort to. “So,” Martin began, “have any odd bags shown up at the address?”

“Nope.”

Martin waited for more, and when none came, he cleared his throat and wrote down a “nope” on his notepad. Jon did want every detail, after all. “Have you experienced anything similar to what happened on Lancaster Road?”

Kieran shrugged. “Not really. What happened then wasn’t really that weird at all. Just a couple of misunderstands.”

Martin blinked oddly at him, processing what was just said. “Mis-misunderstandings?”

“Yup. Nothing all that strange really.”

It was here that the assistant knew the interview wasn’t going to be all that enlightening. “So… the doll heads?”

“Just some bloke’s collection he decided to throw away,” dismissed Woodward. “People collect things all the time. It actually inspired me to start a collection of my own: little skulls of roadkill I find when on our routes. Weird, but it’s fun. I have thirteen so far.”

Martin swallowed, keeping his urge to judge the man stifled. “I see. And… the bag of paper filled with the Lord’s prayer?”

“Obviously some bloke accidentally printed too many copies of the same paper and shredded the rest.”

“Okay, how about the _bag of teeth_?” 

“Fake, obviously. You can’t get thousands of the exact same teeth. Cops are just daft.”

“And the _metal heart with your missing colleague’s name on it_?”

“My therapist and I agree it was a coincidental nightmare.”

Thick fingers ran through dirty-blonde curls as Martin looked down at his notepad now filled with useless information.

(What is Martin supposed to do with this?)

( **_Kick him out of our nest._ **)

( _Expired meat has no use for spiders_.)

Martin just exhaled and glanced at how long the recording was at that point. Three minutes and thirty-eight seconds. Oh boy.

* * *

_Statement #0140912 of Timothy Hodge regarding his sexual encounter with Harriet Lee and her subsequent death, 09/12/14_

Worms. Eugh. Martin didn’t quite like looking at this photo of Jane Prentiss, what with decaying features and her body used like a compost bin for worms. He’d familiarized himself with her before for research into an incident in Edinburgh, but it didn’t make her any less unpleasant to look at. 

That mattered not, however, when he heard a loud _THWACK_ in the break room; it was a slam against a wall that caused every assistant to look up in confusion. A beat passed and another precise hit to the floor sounded, and it was then that Martin recognized the noise.

That was the sound of someone trying to kill a tiny creature.

Within seconds Martin was in the room, finding the spider with ease by following Jon’s fierce gaze at the ground. Like a royal guard diving in to take a bullet for the queen, he heroically leapt and shielded the poor creature from his boss’ wrath. When the broom hit his back with a surprising amount of force, he let out a pathetic “Ow! That hurt!”

A glance up allowed him to confirm that Jon indeed looked like he was going to strangle Martin then and there. “Honestly, Martin! What is with you and your obsession with spiders?”

Martin pursed his lips, for the first time gaining the courage to snap at his boss. “I could ask the same thing with your unreasonable hatred of spiders! How on Earth could you get so worked up over _this_?”

In his palm he held up a small zebra jumping spider. An incredibly small species, this one wasn’t even big enough to cover Martin’s nail. If you weren’t looking for it, you would miss it. It was black with white markings reminiscent of, you guessed it, giraffes. 

No, of course they looked like zebras.

Despite the creature’s microscopic size, Jon flinched and took a step back, as if Martin was about to hurl it at him. “Fine, fine! Take it outside. You are _not_ keeping that thing here. I’ve already allowed you to keep one spider and that’s already pushing it.”

Martin let out a huff, rather annoyed that Jon was acting like a strict parent in reference to him. “I wasn’t going to keep it inside anyways,” he muttered, coming to a stand. “Jumping spiders don’t build webs, you know.”

As told, he exited the room, heading outside. He gave Tim an amused smile when the shout came, “And another one heroically rescued! Good job, Marto, your country salutes you.” Martin came out of the basement and to the front entrance.

Rosie looked up from her computer and let out a soft chuckle upon seeing Martin walking carefully with his hands cupped. “Another one?” Martin’s smile was bashful, neither confirming nor denying, a confirmation in of itself. 

Now out in the cool London air, he gently set the zebra spider on the ground. “You be safe, alright?” he encouraged, beckoning him to go off.

The spider merely watched him, those tiny eyes filled with Knowing.

* * *

_Statement #9220611 of Staff Sgt. Clarence Berry regarding his time serving with Wilfred Owen in the Great War, 06/11/1922_

Martin walked out of his flat with a tired yawn, rubbing the back of his neck after slinging his bag over his shoulder. He only paused when he saw a spider on the wall just outside his door. Tired eyes had to blink several times to register that he wasn’t seeing things, soon realizing the tiny thing was a zebra spider. 

( _Hello._ )

Martin rubbed his eye, allowing the spider to watch him with those beady black spheres. “You can’t possibly be from the institute, hmm?” Martin asked rhetorically, pressing his hand to the wall beside the spider. Of course, that idea was nonsense. Zebra spiders were fairly common in the UK and couldn’t harm a human even if they tried. “Waiting for me, were you?”

On cue, the spider jumped onto the back of his hand, skittering some before making a stop and resting back on her legs. Martin couldn’t shoo this fellow away; it was akin to finding a puppy on his doorstep. “Alright, I suppose you can stay with me. I’ve had a bit of a fly problem; think you can fight the good fight on my behalf?” 

The spider lifted a leg a bit higher than usual to place on his palm, as if to say, “I got you, friend.”

Well, he couldn’t say no to that, and so introduced her to his windowsill. 

“Here you are… erm… name still pending,” he sighed, readjusting his bag before leaving the flat for good. “I’ll think of something. Tim and Sasha probably have a few good zingers.”

* * *

_Statement #0071304 of Evo Lensik regarding his experiences during the construction of a house on Hilltop Rd, Oxford, 13/3/2007_

“Tea’s up!”

Jon glanced up disinterestedly as Martin set his mug on the desk a good distance away from Jon’s papers. “Just how you like it,” Martin hummed, flipping the tray in his hands expertly for all of two seconds before he fumbled with it and scrambled to pick it up off the floor.

Jon’s expression was stolid and unamused, watching Martin with clear distaste. “I do wish you would stop wasting your time with tea and focus on work,” he requested, getting back to his own forms.

Jon was always so hard-working, something that Martin admired greatly, though the fact that he barely ate did impact the assistant’s assessment. But here, he realized that Jon may be signaling to him that he doesn’t want to be bothered with tea anymore. That the benefit of tea was outweighed by the annoyance of having to even look up at Martin. Yes, it hurt, but he swallowed his shame to try and muster up some confidence within himself. Despite his feelings for Jon, he wanted to at least be recognized as having put in the work. “Well, I can always do both,” he reasoned, striding back to his own desk to grab a file and gently place it before Jon. “For the Evo Lensik case? I hope this is sufficient.” 

Jon’s look remained nonplussed, taking the file and not bothering to look inside. “Hm. Did you find out when the house was initially built?”

That had been the big question, but Martin shook his head. “Ah, no. No.” The fact that Jon felt it appropriate to roll his eyes definitely hurt, so Martin was quick to pipe back up with, “ _But_ I did find that the day the tree was torn up, there is an obituary the day after that gives an Agnes Montegue as someone recently passed. Had a severed hand tied to her waist and all that nonsense.”

This finally seemed to be the thing to spark a surprised glance from Jon, who gingerly took up the folder and flicked through its contents. “Now where did you find this? I had Sasha do some follow up on her but found nothing of use.”

Martin loved Sasha to death, but right now she could suck it because now he was the smart and triumphant one. “Oh, well, I decided to look at this through a paranormal lense by taking a look at papers around the UK at that time to see if any events may have been triggered from Evo knocking down a tree, and… I found that on an obituary column.”

Jonathan read through the information carefully and took a gander at some of the pictures. Finally, he neatly put everything back into place and set it to the side. “Well, this certainly brings an interesting aspect to the case. I’ll be sure to add this as a supplement when recording and review.” For a second there was a silence in which Jon seemingly noticed the cheery change in Martin’s demeanor. His eyes flicked to the mug of tea and soon decided to take up the drink with both hands and give it a generous sip. “Thank you for the hard work, Martin. Now, get back to it.”

Needless to say, Martin was in a good mood for the rest of the day. 

_Thank you for the hard work, Martin._

Oh did his heart soar at that.

* * *

_Statement #0020312 of Julia Montork regarding the actions and motivations of her father, the serial killer Robert Montork, 03/12/2002_

The assistants essentially had a free few days as Jon was compiling information on Robert Montork. Given all the darkest secrets and fun facts were already readily available on the internet with a quick Google search, Jon took most of the work on this one. Thankfully, this left Martin’s boss distracted enough to allow the petrified assistant to frantically search each corner of the archives for a missing spider.

Eliot hadn’t been on his web when Martin arrived at the institute. He was able to keep his cool when Jon passed by, but as soon as he was in the recording room, Martin was on the floor searching under desks and whispering his name as if Eliot would actually be able to respond. He checked everywhere he could that wouldn’t attract Jon’s attention. Sasha and Tim promised not to tell, and bless their hearts whenever they carefully watched every step they took and would check the bottom of their shoes each time they sat down. 

It wasn’t until he was checking the breakroom that he finally got a lead. Unfortunately, it was in the form of Elias.

“Martin? May we have a word?” came that formal voice, and not in the strict, clippy tone he had grown accustomed to with his boss. 

Martin sprang up from the floor, cheeks heating up as he fumbled for an explanation. Not even in his nightmares was he going to tell the head of the institute that he was looking for his lost spider instead of working. “Oh! Um, Elias! Sorry, sorry, I was just— umm —I lost a pen and I’ve been trying to find it!” He took a look back at his employer, heart dropping when he noticed just what was in Elias’ grasp.

His bulbous abdomen held firmly between two large fingers, Eliot flailed his limbs wildly at Martin, as if pleading to the big guy for help. There was no possibility it was any other spider.

Elias’ expression at Martin’s shock could be described as frustratingly smug, though it was clear he himself was unhappy. It also wasn’t a good sign that he had deemed it appropriate to shut the door behind him, leaving Martin cornered. 

Elias held his friend up a bit higher to further emphasize his find. “This is what you were looking for, isn’t it? Or would you rather take the pen I have on me if you’re on the floor searching for one?” he inquired smoothly, disposition rather friendly so far despite the jab. He considered the spider thoughtfully. “Eliot, you call him, isn’t that right? Oddly enough, I found the little one in my office.” The heavy press of his gaze was now back on Martin. “Any idea how that happened?”

The employee’s mouth hung open, unsure if he would be able to speak even if he knew the answer. He usually found himself lost in silence when it came to Elias, who did all the talking. Though he was certainly not gifted in height, there was an unseen power to the employer that threw off whatever physical advantage Martin might have had over his boss. 

Somehow Martin was able to dig out a few words from the puddle that was his brain at the moment. “I’m not sure!” he spoke honestly, aching to reach out a hand to ask for him back. “Eliot always stays in the archives. Or— not that I don’t let him run around or anything, though I can’t exactly control his actions, ahm…”

Elias’ gaze was unwavering, a playful smirk to him. “Ah, I see. Did Tim put you up to this?” he questioned, his soft laughter bringing about a calmness to Martin. “A prank on the old ‘double boss’ after the promotion, hmm?” 

He was laughing; great, maybe he was taking this in good faith. Martin laughed along, his own voice quaking with humor forced by his nerves. “Maybe!” He grabbed at any out he could get. He just wanted Eliot back as he was sure Elias’ touch was like fire to the small guy. Just a bit of pressure and the spider’s abdomen would rupture with ease. Martin’s more sensible side came out in the last minute, however, convincing him he shouldn’t throw his friend under the bus. “But, well, Tim never put me up to anything. And… and I don’t think he would do that sort of thing. I don’t really think he’d be cruel enough to take Eliot without my permission just for a prank.”

Elias canted his head slightly, lips pursed. “ _Then how did he get in my office?_ ”

Martin could no longer swallow, a prickling sensation crawling up from his stomach and to his lips. It was unpleasant in a way that made him want to throw up every secret he’s ever kept, dumping them all in front of Elias for him to stare at and watch and judge. “I don’t know,” he finally mustered out, the words spilling seconds before he could even process what he had wanted to say. “I… I’m sorry.”

It was almost surprising how quickly Elias’ gaze lost its power, a twinge of sympathy detectable over a professional visage. “I believe you,” he conceded, offering the spider to Martin. Martin almost stumbled to take Eliot into his cupped hands, not minding when the false widow scuttled up to his hair to nest in its thick safety. Martin made sure that Eliot was secure before turning his gaze back to Elias, who watched with relative amusement. “I don’t quite believe in pets within the institute,” he confessed, “but I suppose we all have our exception.” Martin opened his mouth to relay the fact that he didn’t think of Eliot as a pet, but soon decided it was best not to push his luck. His superior gave him a wry smile, hand on the doorknob as he was bidding him farewell. “Do make sure it doesn’t happen again. With how small he is, I’m sure you know how easily accidents can occur.”

Martin had only just barely registered Elias’ absence before Jon came in, curiously watching his boss leaving prior to tossing an inquisitive look over at his assistant. His eyes didn’t hold that same disapproving glean as usual, instead a worry was now cast over his demeanor. “Did I miss something?” he asked, brow raised. A worry that the workaholic within him wasn’t being fed enough.

Martin let out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. “Ah… no. He had just come down for a chat,” was the excuse he tossed out. That worry lingered for a few seconds more, and for a moment, he would have sworn it was a non-work related sort of concern, but it soon disappeared. 

Jon nodded, grabbing himself a glass of water. “That certainly sounds like Elias.”

Martin could only nod, too immersed with relief to properly respond.

( **_Arsehole._ **)

* * *

_Statement #0100710 of Trevor Hervert regarding his life as a self-proclaimed vampire hunter, 07/10/2014_

Seeing Tim actively try to deny blame for a prank was such an odd sight. Whenever “someone” had filled Jon’s desk with Halloween candy (“Whoa, how did that get from America all the way to your desk. Pretty spooky~”) or Sasha found all the information within a file replaced with the entire Bee Movie script (“It’s in the file so you legally have to record it”), Tim had always dove into the spotlight to enjoy that sweet sweet ridicule. So when Tim held up a hand and declared, “Hand on a stack of Bibles, no way I put the little man in Elias’ office,” Martin automatically believed him.

Martin pursed his lips, casting a critical gaze at Eliot. “I guess he just went on a bit of a walk then. Decided to pop in on our boss of all people.”

“Be thankful it was Elias and not Jon,” Sasha reasoned, sat backwards on her chair to rest her arms on its backing. “Not as forgiving. At least he wasn’t hurt, right?”

Martin could only give a hesitant nod. “I mean, generally, yes. One of his paws got a little injured, but that’s alright. He has seven more and can heal up.”

Sasha put a hand to her heart, endearment evident in her eyes. “Martin, did you just call his little legs ‘paws’? That is honestly the cutest thing I’ve heard all day.”

He felt a smile emerge as he had found another two to reel into the world’s best kept secret. “No, they have paws,” he insisted, and when he only got blank stares, a laugh bubbled up. “What, you thought their legs just ended in spikes? No, they have paws—“

“Say sike right now,” Tim interrupted, dead serious. “You’re lying to us. There’s no way. Say sike right now.”

Martin couldn’t help his grin, gesturing to Eliot. “Look for yourself.” 

Sasha scrambled to open her desk drawer. “I have a magnifying glass. Give me a moment.”

Before long the three were huddled around the web. With the help of the tool, Tim and Sasha could clearly see the outline of two fat and furry digits on the end of each leg, resembling a hoof layered in fine hairs. “Oh my god…” Sasha murmured under her breath upon finding out that which the government didn’t want her to know. “Oh my god. Spiders have toe beans.”

Tim nodded slowly, watching over her shoulder. “Holy shit. What am I supposed to do with this information?”

Martin could only smile adoringly at his friends, but as soon as he heard the door to the archivist’s office open, he cleared his throat. Everyone was back at their desks in mere seconds, pretending to idly work as Jon stepped into their sight. Thankfully Martin had already been in the middle of his own work in investigating claims of vampires. Much harder than you would think, honestly, but he still tried.

“Martin?” Jon’s voice called out, “a word in my office?”

The assistant could see the sympathetic glances he was getting in his peripherals. No doubt Jon had caught onto their slacking, the biggest sin one could commit in the archives. “Wish me luck,” he sighed under his breath, leaving his desk to join Jon in his office. 

Jon had an odd look to his office that one may define as “organized chaos”. While nothing like the havoc Gertrude had wrought prior to his promotion, Martin could at least tell that any boxes or files strewn about had been placed for a specific purpose and had an intended destination. It was actually a little admirable, in Martin’s opinion, as it was clear he focused more on efficiency and practicality rather than presentation like Elias did.

Jon took his rightful place at his desk, gesturing for Martin to do the same in the guest chair. He looked quite proper and official despite his surroundings, and Martin couldn’t imagine anyone else ever being in his place and still looking so fit for the seat.

When Martin’s seat was taken, Jon proceeded to turn on the digital voice recorder he had hooked up to his laptop. “Now, Martin, I was informed that you were in the institute whilst Trevor Herbert’s statement was being taken, yes? I would greatly appreciate it if you could recount your experience with him.”

The assistant took a good moment to recall the significance of the name, before his brow sprung up. “Oh! Trevor. The vampire slayer, right?”

“Quite,” Jon agreed with an annoyed bite to it, unabashedly showing his thoughts on the statement. “I just need your recounting of what happened in the moments leading up to his death.”

Martin nodded his head firmly, already having that image of the slurring Scot in his head. The man had given him a hearty pat on the back after being shown the break room and promptly died an hour later. Jon, Tim, and Sasha had all been out that day, with Martin being there to help mitigate the panic of having someone die in the middle of your institute. 

“Nothing much to tell,” he recalled honestly. “He stumbled out of the archives and asked me where the break room was. He looked absolutely knackered. I showed him and he gave me a look and went inside to have a lie down. I was up in research when they found him dead an hour later, thankfully. I’ve… never seen a dead person before so…”

Jon gave a small nod to his summary, hands folded atop one another. “Of course. Before we get into time details, let’s rewind a bit. You said he gave you a look? Of what sort?”

Martin honestly hadn’t meant to mention that, but it would be weird if he just retracted it now. “Well, he stopped to give me a look. Like an analytical one. Scanned me up and down, that sort.”

Jon took a moment to look at the laptop, his scrunched brow making it obvious the recording was starting to give him problems once more, but he seemed to get it back to proper working order. “I see. Any other oddities?”

He thought back, remembering the man’s hands. Palms wrapped over in intricate webs that only Martin could see. They wound up his fingers like a thin mockery of gloves. “His hands…” he mentioned without thought, going back to how his breathing hitched when he saw those threads and how easily the silk-bound fingers could wrap around his throat. “His hands were—“

The telltale _boop_ of a computer error sounded throughout the room. Immediately Jon sunk his face into his hands, the groan he let out sounding closest to despair. Immediately he went to try to restore the recording, but it had been irreversibly corrupted. Martin gave him time to mourn over the lost recording and set up a new one. “We’ll try digital one more time,” he sighed, pressing the record button. “Sometimes I wonder if any real paranormal power has simply been put in this archive to spite me.” Indifferent eyes flicked to Martin. “Let’s start from the top. Though I do suggest we shorten things a bit.”

The assistant only made a hum of agreement. He felt silly for talking about Trevor’s eyes and hands, as it was most definitely only Martin’s self-consciousness and hyperfixations working against him. He wouldn’t mention those on the recording. Jon appreciated facts, after all, and it was best not to waste his time with odd little feelings about transient men.

Thankfully the digital recording stayed intact this time and was properly stored.

* * *

_Statement #0151403 of Antonio Blake regarding his recent dreams about Gertrude Robinson, previous Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, 14/03/2015_

Tim had told Martin that Jon was a bit more disquieted than usual after a recent statement. Something having to do with Gertrude’s death, unfortunately, so Martin knew it may have struck something within Jon despite how much he claimed to despise her for leaving him with this mess.

Martin found it rather unfortunate that Jon was in a state of unrest while his assistant was just meters away speaking cheerily with Sasha about cows. Naturally, he did what he did best and made some tea. 

When he knocked and received the usual dull “come in”, he strode inside with a single mug of liquid gold. Jon seemed to be in a fight between confusion and annoyance. “A little early for tea, isn’t it?”

The blonde wasn’t deterred, gently setting down the mug on Jon’s desk as he usually would. “Perhaps. Tim mentioned you were in a bit of a bad mood, so I thought you may need some at the moment.” His gaze met his boss’ hesitantly. “Is… that okay?”

Jonathan’s eyes held him steady, critical and cold as usual. They searched for something within Martin before breaking to rest on the tea. Steadily he took the mug into both his hands; Martin liked watching him do so. He could practically feel Jon’s momentary peace at letting the warmth of the mug slowly seep into his hands. It was a beautiful thing to watch, really: Jon, closing his eyes and letting out a steady exhale, one that caused a couple of loose strands of hair to flick to the side. There would be a pause for him to simply exist in that moment before bringing the mug to his lips, taking a slow sip to savor the taste. 

God this was not helping Martin fight his undying crush.

When the mug was put down, Jon gave a nod and brought his focus back to Martin. “That was… very considerate of you, Martin. Thank you.”

That was all Martin needed to hear to have his entire day made. “Not a problem,” he hummed, backing up to the door. “Enjoy!”

Jon merely gave a nod before the door was closed, but Martin was sure he could feel his gaze lingering on him even after the visual separation.

* * *

_Statement #0121102 of Lesere Sarai regarding a recent night shift at St. Thomas Hospital, London, 11/02/2012_

Martin finally found it within himself to put the needle to use. He’d gone out and bought himself some comfortable fabrics and gone though shelves of multicolored threads until he had his plan set in stone. He’d sewn before, but never full articles. Today he planned on starting a jumper, one that was made with cooler colors to match the season. It would be nice to make something fitted to his specific measurements that could keep him warm in the colder months.

He’d cleared out the rest of his day for this, so when he’d finally gotten off of work, and taken the tube home, he found himself giddily hopping through the door of his flat in anticipation.

He had been in the middle of taking his own measurements before he noticed a familiar zebra spider. He glanced over as soon as he was finished noting down the centimeters. “Oh, hello there, Poppy,” he greeted as he would with a coworker. “I’m just making myself a little something. Afterwards I’ll find a treat or two for you.” 

Naturally, Poppy just watched, comfortable around the human’s presence, as unnatural as the idea was for an insect to find comfort in a person. Martin knew it was himself projecting his feelings onto the spider, but he’d been doing it far too long and knew there was no stopping him anymore. 

Once all the measurements were written down, the fabric was given its proper outline and had each piece cut out meticulously. Soon everything was properly marked and the pieces were put in their proper place. He threaded the needle with red. A bold color, yes, but he knew the contrast would be perfect. With the thread secure, he made his first pierce through the fabric. The red was so sharp against the baby blues, but it was a statement he quite liked. He tugged the needle upwards to properly get the thread through and—

The string snapped in half. Martin had to take a moment off to consider that fact. An upsetting start, but okay, he was willing to persevere. Another thread was looped through the needle, strung through the fabric, and just like the last, it broke at the slightest tug. He tried one last time, and when the same result took place, he decided he had learned his lesson when it came to things that were from the Archives. Like the recordings, he was just going to accept it wasn’t going to work and set them aside. It didn’t make things any less frustrating, of course.

At last, he grabbed a small box of crickets from his room and took it to the sitting area. “Alright Poppy, it looks like dinner is coming early,” he announced, scanning around until he saw a pinprick of movement on the windowsill. Insect in hand, he approached with a smile only to soon be left in a state of absolute shock.

In the corner of the window was a small web where Poppy sat and guarded. Jumping spiders didn’t build webs, of course, unless they were laying eggs, and there just so happened to be a small ball of web in the center, dangling and kept safe by strong silk

Now, Martin had a bad encounter with a spider sac early in life, but it didn't leave him any less excited when he laid eyes on the egg sac. “Poppy!” he nearly squealed, bouncing on his toes in a small celebration. “Aw, I’m honored you’d lay your eggs here! Oh— I’ve got to buy more crickets then.” He gently gave the one he was holding to the hungry mother. “More than a dozen little spiderlings? I’ll have to buy a few jars, but I don’t mind. I just hope I’ll be able to provide enough for you lot.”

* * *

_Statement #0161301 of Naomi Herne regarding the events following the funeral of her fiancé, Evan Lukas, 13/01/2016_

“Excuse me, where’s the exit to this bunker?”

Martin blinked in surprise, looking back from the kettle and to a young woman in the doorway of their break room. She was no older than him, hand on her hip with cheeks flushed red. It was clear she was holding back tears behind an infuriated visage. He recognized her right away as the woman Jon was supposed to interview.

Worry was the first thing to jump into the forefront of his mind, knowing he couldn’t leave this woman leaving upset. She had obviously had an unpleasant experience and he wouldn’t forgive himself if he let her go without any consolation. Thankfully he had a back-up mug he kept around just for live statements. It was a miracle the tea had only just finished steeping. 

“Um, yes, actually,” he belted out rather hurriedly and without thinking as he poured a generous cup. He turned, offering her a warm smile and the mug. “Stairs are to the right. Before you go, though, here, have some tea.”

Rage quickly melted into the surprised denial of someone who hadn’t expected to be treated properly. “Oh! Oh no, no, I couldn’t possibly,” she denied, a hand to her heart. 

“Nonsense!” Martin chirped with insistence. “I’m sure telling your story was hard. Outside of being here to listen, it’s the least we could do.”

Hesitantly, she took up the cup, her gaze softening as she gave it a sip. “Thank you,” she spoke with gratitude. “It’s, ah… it’s been a rough day, if you couldn’t tell.” Her look took a more resenting tone. “The man who took my statement is… a bit of an asshole.”

Martin would have been disappointed in his boss if he wasn’t already amazed that Jon had been able to make someone cry on his very first live statement. “That… that sounds like Jon,” Martin conceded honestly, sipping his own tea alongside her. “If you want, you can take that mug with you.”

The woman looked to him in surprise once more, no doubt finding him to be overly generous. “You’d let me do that?”

Martin gave a small shrug. “It’s a spare, really. I can just pop by Poundland and buy another,” he reasoned. “If I were you, I’d probably want some time to myself. Time to just think and get myself together.” Martin could understand wanting to be alone. Sometimes the silence was just a comfort. 

The guest considered the offer, a slow shake of her head soon starting up. “No… no, I think I’d like some company,” she confessed, allowing Martin to guide her to the break table where she could sit and collect herself. She seemed to be feeling better at the moment, and it made Martin happy. She cast a smile at him. “My name is Naomi, by the way.”

“Martin,” he greeted in turn before offering her some more tea.

* * *

_Statement #0112905 of Lee Rentoul on the murder of his associate Paul Noriega, 29/05/2011_

“—and that’s when Angela told me about this thousand-piece puzzle she did,” Martin remembered, regaling Poppy with his chats with some old women over the latest statement he had to work on. He had just finished dinner and was cleaning his bowl. “A thousand pieces. I don’t think I could ever have the time, but I think Mum might like one. Maybe I should buy her one. The fifth Angela I talked to said new puzzlers should start with a hundred and work their way up.” Once he was done, he dried his hands, a rather satisfied smile upon his face. “Maybe I should get myself one. I hear they help with focus.”

Martin didn’t think he could ever do with a set puzzle, though, now that he truly considered it. “Too… restricting, really,” he tried to explain in a way that would make sense to Poppy. He held up a finger to indicate he would be gone for a moment before retrieving a sweater of his; it was one of his favorite articles to wear for autumn, what with a warm orange and maroon color scheme. A bit of color to brighten up the grayer months was always something Martin loved to indulge in. He grabbed his fabric scissors he had bought to make a jumper. “You know what I mean, right?” he insisted, lining the scissors up with one of the seams. “When you make webs, you don’t have a guide. You just improvise! Go with what’s in your gut, what with—“ He paused in his cutting, noticing the flaw in his own logic. “Wait. Wait no, jumping spiders don’t make webs to catch prey. Maybe you don’t know what I mean…”

A moment of pause for Martin to question his decision to entrust his deep feelings in a spider before he began cutting once more, now seamlessly splitting the orange and maroon. “I’m a poet at heart. I make my own puzzles and paint my own pictures.” He looked away for a moment, cheeks flushing. “Even if I’m not all that good at it…” he added. His Mum certainly didn’t think so.

“Supply all the pieces and watch people put it together,” he moved on, cutting the very last seam and now sorting the pieces of fabric based on color. “I mean, that’s what I like to think of it as. Usually when people don’t understand my poetry and I reveal the meaning, they usually go something like ‘Oh. Oh yeah, I can see it that way.’ Hardly a master of play-on words. But… I don’t think I could stop. Creating is just too much fun.” 

He set the scissors down once he was done, looking over to see Poppy watching him while nestled next to her egg sac as usual. She spoke no words, and yet he understood that she got the point. Martin gave her a warm smile, looking down at the counter and over the two piles of orange and maroon fabric, neatly cut into varying strips and sizes. If he were determined enough, he could fit the pieces back together to make a whole sweater once more.

The rather prideful look soon melted away as Martin slowly began to regain clarity of the situation. 

He had just cut up one of his favorite sweaters.

Martin was silent for quite a while as he considered the two piles of fabric. “Why did I just do that?” he asked at last to a friend who would never be able to talk back. He had a feeling that if she could talk, she would just say

( **_It’s in our nature._ **)

* * *

_Statement #0140911 of Laura Popham regarding her experience exploring the Three Counties System of caves with her sister, Aleana Sanderson, 09/11/2014_

“Caves?” Martin parroted for the third time that day.

If Jon could roll his eyes any harder, they would be dice. “Yes, Martin. Caves. All I’m asking is that you look into possible reports of people being trapped within the Three Counties System. I suggest you start with records of calls to emergency services and comparing descriptions to our case.”

Martin let his thoughts drift to people crawling through tight tunnels and was brought back to the day he had gone to retrieve his football from under the porch. The inability to move or breathe with spiders scuttling over his body and the confines of the porch only just barely big enough to squeeze through. 

“Um…” he said politely, “do you think I can sit this one out? I’m, uh, a little claustrophobic.”

Jon’s brow rose in unpleasant surprise at the sudden refusal. Unhappy and confused was an understatement. He stared at Martin with a criticizing gaze, silently picking him apart for an answer to the burning question of “why?”

Martin cleared his throat. “It’s, ah, a spider-related thing.”

Immediately any interest in Jon's visage vanished like a snuffed flame. “Oh,” he hummed, disapproving but no longer with any motivation to dig deeper. “In that case, I don't care to know.” He didn’t dismiss Martin entirely just yet as he usually would. Instead, he flipped through a box of files, and with a flick of his wrist, brought out a specific statement. “Well I can’t have you sitting around doing nothing. I had this statement queued up for several months ahead, but I don’t see any reason why you can’t start looking into it now.”

“Just me?” Martin questioned, feeling honored to be bestowed such trust, though it was tainted with just a hint of anxiety. “Are you sure?”

“Most certainly,” Jon reassured him, handing over the file. “This one was practically made for you. I believe it is within your area of expertise.” After getting no response, he cleared his throat. “Do you think you can handle it, Martin?”

Martin was rather distracted at the moment, unable to help but notice how his hand stuck to it like glue. Opening its contents was a bit of a challenge with the cobwebs that nearly glued the pages shut. Despite watching Martin with that always-speculating gaze, Jon never seemed to notice.

Despite that, Martin felt only excitement well up within him.

* * *

_Statement #▓▓▓▓▓▓▓ of Martin’s Mother regarding ▓▓▓▓▓▓▓_

_…_

_.._

_._

_Hey._

_…_

_.._

_._

_Can you hear us?_

_…_

_.._

_._

_I want to tell you something._

_…_

_.._

_._

_▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓w▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓e▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓l▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓o▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓v▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓e▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓y▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓o▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓u▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓_

_…_

_.._

_._

_Good night, my spiderling._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tl;dr: 
> 
> jon: i am anger
> 
> martin: have tee
> 
> jon: less anger now
> 
> martin: im doing things i dont have control over and i dont understand what is going on god help me
> 
> jon: -sip- mmmm good tee


	6. Intrusion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin has his unfortunate encounter with Jane Prentiss. What follows details his time in hiding and some small events at the institute.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello fam. Hope ya’ll are doing good. Here is a chapter of Martin developing a fear of worms.
> 
> Content warnings: Worms. Lots of descriptions of worms. Like the spiders, I’m not shying away from describing Martin’s thoughts about them. Also, Martin does have a few moments where his intrusive thoughts and self-loathing rear its head.

_ Statement #0150409 of Carlos Vittery regarding his Arachnaphobia and its manifestations, 09/04/2016 _

Carlos’ statement was a whirlwind of emotions for the assistant.

‘ _ I. Hate. Spiders.’ _

From the get go, Martin’s opinion of the man who had come in to give his statement was, to say the least, a tad soured.

_ ‘I know, I know, everyone hates spiders.’ _

(Speak for yourself, Carlos ( _ insect _ )).

Martin had never thought of his love of spiders as a fascination; that had been when he was a child. Nowadays he just knew them as living creatures trying to get by just as Martin was and helping the world one task at a time, and if he wanted to keep them from being harmed, he didn’t think it was all that odd. Practically second nature, even. While reading, Martin had to think back to all the times he had been noted as being odd for his liking of spiders by his peers. ‘Weird”, as his mother had unabashedly said. “Absurd and idiotic,” Jon had said straight to his face when it came to his insistance on protecting them. Even Tim and Sasha had occasionally joked about it as being “a little freakish”, even if they never meant anything by it. 

This statement, to say the least, was one that put his interest into an entirely new perspective of someone who  _ loathed  _ spiders. 

Carlos spoke of the presence of spiders and how terrifying it was to have their many legs scurry over your skin, featherlight and yet still so detectable. Even as he was reading, he was conscious of Eliot on his hand, resting there and Watching, at one point scuttling up his arm. This did little to haunt Martin. Spiders were affectionate, though not cuddly, and Martin found it to only be endearing when one decided to crawl onto him. It showed that he wasn’t a threat, and that the spider was considering that he might be a safe place to build a nest. Martin disagreed with this idea; he wasn’t exactly nest material, no matter how fond he was of spiders. While the thought of spiders seeking warmth in his home brought Carlos only dread, it was an idea that brought a smile to Martin’s face and had him thinking back on Poppy and how she and her eggs were doing well back at home. By all means, he would have taken Carlos’ spider-infested garden in a heartbeat; he would like to see insects try to get into his home then. Was this wrong of him? Was this really what brought so much loathing onto him from people like Jon? No, he had always thought. They simply didn’t  _ understand  _ spiders in the same way he did. They hadn’t gone through the same experience. They couldn’t  _ see  _ what he saw.

This is what he had always convinced himself, up until he met the statement’s main antagonist. 

Sitting there so boldly with eight shiny voids staring at Carlos with such  _ Knowing  _ and  _ Planning _ . A bulbous abdomen from a full meal dwarfed her thorax she would watch him with greedy, daring eyes. Each description Carlos gave rang a bell of familiarity in Martin’s head, bringing forth the realization of just how similar their experiences were. 

“Charlotte…” He didn’t realize the words had left his mouth in a breathless whisper until the sound reverberated in his thoughts like an endless echo. It wasn’t Charlotte, of course, it couldn't have been. The spider depicted was barely an inch in length, and given that she was a mother, she was fully grown. Charlotte was bigger than his adult hand and proudly displayed a brown coat and hadn’t quite reached adulthood. Even still, this spider gave him the same odd feeling of Charlotte, eyes hiding a hidden intelligence and asking only for his attention. As Carlos told his tale, Martin could see himself there in an apartment that wasn’t his, staring at a spider he knew so well simply sitting on the TV. The spider beckoned him. Not Carlos, but Martin. 

He felt Eliot’s legs reach his neck just as Martin was getting to Carlos’ first ever encounter, and without warning, he was under the porch once more.

Innumerable legs, scuttling curiously and exploring his body as if it wasn’t even his.

For the first time in years, Martin felt dread rise up at the prickling sensation of Eliot resting against his throat. 

Very little research was needed to get Martin’s stomach to lurch. Those final descriptions of Vittery’s corpse stopped his heart there. Wrapped in a bundle of silk, he lay there, trapped. It almost looked like a cocoon, a chrysalis protecting what lay inside. From the cremation record, of course, it was clear nothing ever emerged. He could feel himself there now, hands bound and eyes and mouth glued shut with hundreds of interconnected silken webs, sewing him blind and silent as they weaved down his throat. 

This could have been him. This  _ was  _ him. So why was Martin spared instead of bound and drained like Carlos? Their experiences had been nearly identical. Was it because he was fond of the spiders? 

Or was it more that they were fond of him?

(Because he was  _ theirs’  _ ( _ ours  _ ( **_Mother’s_ ** ))).

Martin barely made it to the bin before he found himself emptying his lunch, and yet despite the burning in his throat, all he could think of was how glad he was that he had been  _ allowed  _ to vomit; that he could cry and sob and there wouldn’t be a wall of silk taking away that right.

He rested against the bin where he had been sick, glad that he was alone and that no one could see him. Of course, the legs that tapped at his cheek made sure to remind him that that was untrue. Martin quickly felt as though he would be sick once more, and so with shaky hands, he gently grabbed Eliot by his fat abdomen and walked him back to the web. “I’m sorry, T.S. I’m… I need some air,” he excused himself. A hand to his mouth, he had to quickly stride away. He had just made a polite excuse to a spider, as if asking permission, and it was this realization that nearly had him sick again.

Martin knew this was more than just a hoax of a statement. It may be a bad idea to get personally attached to a case, but he couldn’t resist even if he tried. And so with that, he went to start investigating.

* * *

Martin would admit, he wasn’t proud of trespassing; it was something he’d never done before and so was surprised by how willing he was to squeeze himself through a window and essentially break into a complex he had no right to be in. To top that off, he had found nothing enlightening, and he wondered if it was a bad thing that he was so disappointed. Yes, he didn’t want to be wrapped up in web (as comfy as that sounds ( _ as homely as that sounds  _ ( **_as right as it sounds_ ** ))), but his immediate thoughts had been on the spiders and, more ridiculously, Jon. Jon already thought of Martin as lower than dirt, and the assistant was determined to dig something up. After all, it was  _ his  _ case.  _ He  _ was the one who thought and spoke so highly of the eight-legged little ones. The idea that he of all people wouldn’t be able to dig something up (even though it all relied on the circumstances of the case), it was just rather pathetic. 

Martin tried, he really did. So one can imagine his face when Jon had the nerve to up and say, “I suppose it doesn’t matter that you failed to find anything. His state was no doubt due to natural causes, what with his corpse being alone for a week.”

Jon had taken a full minute of sorting through another case before he realized Martin was still standing at his desk, gawking at him as if Jon had grown extra eyes. “Is there anything else you need, Martin?”

The assistant somehow found it within him to shut his slacked jaw, mind still processing the utter pile of garbage he had just been fed. “Natural causes?” he tentatively repeated, testing to see that he had heard his boss right. “Are you… I mean, are you sure?”

A small sigh left Jon, followed by a moment of hesitation, before he stood firm on his decision. “You can’t possibly expect us to investigate a mind-controlling ghost spider that doesn’t exist. If you actually read the statement, you would know that Mr. Vittery was looking into getting professional help. Now, would you be so kind as to put the statement into the ‘Discredited’ section of our Archives?”

Martin’s brain nearly ceased to function at his reply. Gingerly taking the case, he struggled to find the words to both refute and convince Jon. He couldn’t just abandon something that would help him know what was wrong ( _ no _ ) with him. Did Carlos see the webs Martin did? He so desperately wanted to sit with Jon and tell him about his own experiences in hopes that he would take his assistant seriously. It was all false hope and wild dreams, of course; Jon would think him crazy and remove him from the archives. Despite it all, he  _ needed  _ to know.

Martin cleared his throat, choosing his words carefully. “Well, I mean, I think we should still look into it. We’ve only spent a day on it so…”

“No need.” Jon spoke as if it was a fact, not a matter of opinion. He stared up at Martin with that critical, scrutinizing gaze that flayed Martin inside and out. Martin felt something ugly bubbling up in his core at the sight. Jon looked at him with eyes that tried to know every detail, but didn’t hesitate to look over the one thing Martin _needed_ him to look into. “I can’t have you wasting time on the same unfounded statement. I’ll have you working on another one tomorrow.” His brow arched when Martin continued to stand there, his critical gaze now one of pure _judgement_. “Anything you want to tell me, Martin?” That wasn’t a question, but a dare.

Martin didn’t even register his mouth was open until the words spilled out in a wave of spite. 

“Well I just think that if you’re so afraid of spiders that it’s making you this daft, maybe you should hand the case off to someone more fit to be Head Archivist!”

In the first time since the week they had initially met, Jon was stunned, eyes blown wide and lips parted slightly in speechlessness. He tried to muster up a retort, but upon him meeting Martin’s eyes once more, he stopped himself, unconsciously shifting uncomfortably in the silence. 

It was only a moment after that when Martin slowly came back to himself and he realized what had just been said. A hand clamped over his mouth, but by then, a full minute had passed. He didn’t know what had happened; it was like he hadn’t been in control of his body. Martin would  _ never  _ speak to someone like that, and now with Jon reeling from what was an uncalled for statement, he was flooded with guilt. It didn’t matter how Jon acted; Martin couldn’t have been more horrified over his own language. 

“I…” He didn’t know what to say other than, “Jon, I am  _ so  _ sorry. I— I swear I didn’t mean it— I just—“

Face on fire, Martin dropped his attempt to somehow salvage the situation and simply walked out without another word. It wasn’t until he had left the room and was hurrying up the stairs that he realized he still felt that critical, scrutinizing gaze, even with Jon nowhere to be seen.

As soon as he was out of the institute, every unnatural feeling that crept and crawled up his spine vanished. He slumped against the brick wall by the entrance, thoughts racing. “Why did I speak to him like that?” he whispered under his breath, voice lost and begging as if throwing a prayer for answers out to God. “What’s wrong with me?”

( **_Too few legs, perhaps._ ** )

Martin looked tiredly out at London. He realized then that he wasn’t going to get answers by sitting by. He had a job, after all. 

He wasn’t going home, or at least not now, anyway. Taking out his phone, he went to his GPS and scrolled through his recently visited locations.

* * *

Martin loathed to admit that he was surprised no one had caught him wiggling his way through the window and into the complex. With all the grunting and muttering, he was sure he would be in cuffs by the end of the day. To think he had actually considered going out and buying black clothing to hide himself more; he might as well have been asking to be fingered as a burglar, no questions asked. Hell, he would have called the cops on himself already.

“Christ I need to lose some weight,” he muttered a moment after his feet hit the floor, only to be hit by a wave of musty air. He gagged, though quickly adjusted to the scent, learning to just breathe through it and march onward. 

Moonlight filtered in through the window, casting a small square of soft white glow in the room whilst everything outside of it was cast in complete darkness. His shadow was a pillar that split the light, and out of the corner of his eye, he would have sworn he saw the black silhouette shift slightly, it’s edges not set completely. A trick of the light, he reasoned. If he really was going crazy, he had to have at least some semblance of reason.

He looked up and cast a gaze around in the dark shroud, and it was there that something seemed to click in his mind. He felt a tug in his head, no doubt fear starting to ebb its way into his psyche, but it wasn’t beckoning him back the window. He had made a mistake coming here, he knew, as the urge pointed him deeper into the darkness to discover its secrets. He didn’t argue, despite knowing how wrong it was.

Pulling out his torch, he flicked it up to the ceiling and stair railings where he knew spiderwebs to be, and indeed there were some. Upon closer inspection, they were unfortunately simply abandoned cobwebs. 

He was looking for signs of a spider, barely an inch long, found in the UK, and given it had wrapped an entire human in a web, most likely had intricate web patterns. A tunnel web spider sounded exactly like what Carlos had described, and since the species was well known for its ability to form a large circular hole within their web, Martin came to the conclusion that maybe the spider was forming a tunnel web and there just happened to be a person there. Stupid idea, yes, but Martin would rather not think of the spiders as inherently maliscious. They can’t be. 

Unfortunately, no trace of arachnids were to be seen; not even any corpses of the little guys, a detail that brought tension to his shoulders. It was as if they had all decided to simply up and leave. 

There wasn’t anything left here. This was just a waste of time, and while Vittery’s room itself had yet to be investigated, actually breaking and entering some poor soul’s home was where Martin drew the line.

That’s when he heard the rustling.

In a moment of unthinking panic, he swung the beam of his torch to the sound’s origin with his feet ready to make the dash. He would find himself glued to the spot, however. There was a cough followed by a wet smack on the ground, and he saw those writhing worms fall and splatter to the ground. It moved to burrow back into the woman’s skin, and with that, Martin screamed. It was then that her eyes met his.

Creeping. Crawling. Such motions were natural for him; they were at least  _ predictable _ . Each step was made with an idea in mind and purpose. That was not present. No, what Martin saw  _ writhed _ . 

Wriggling. Digging. Squirming. Muscles spasming and twitching with a need to burrow ( _ corrupt _ ). They swam in the pools of her eyes and flailed freely in the sockets of missing teeth. They sprang from every orifice, and when they ran out of room in the existing ones, they made their own. She opened her mouth without sound, her throat a tunnel for the mass of worms and  _ web _ ; each burrowing worm was connected to another, all tied to the infected woman as she was filled with the threads of those who owned her. She resembled a puppet from the inside, the worms twitching and pulling her without thought or sentience and yet with the wants and need to  _ infect _ .

( **_can you hear us_ ** _ ) _

Martin’s memory was fuzzy after that.

( **_your body is so warm_ ** )

He remembered pulling out his phone to take a stupid photo.

( **_give us a home, Martin_ ** )

He remembered running. 

( **_please let us in_ ** )

He remembered crying on the tube, unable to bring his mind away from how a worm could so easily slip into his tear ducts with the amount of tears he shed.

( **_let us in_ ** )

He remembered bursting through the door and vomiting into the bin.

( **_let us in_ ** )

He remembered curling up on the couch and passing out.

( **_let us in_ ** **)**

He remembered hearing

( **_let us in_ ** )

( _ They won’t have you. _ )

( **_We already belong to the mother._ ** )

* * *

_ Statement #9991006 of Sebastian Adekoya regarding a new acquisition at Chiswick Library, 10/06/1999 _

When Martin awoke, the first thing he noted was the power outage in his flat. The water still worked, thankfully. His phone, however, was gone, a consequence from his actions the night before. Although he felt that inkling of danger in the back of his mind, he knew that things would be alright. He could simply visit his mother and use her phone to call in to work (yeah there was no way he was going to work after a night like that), and he could sure use her company right about now.

That was the plan up until he walked to the door and spotted Poppy there, sitting directly on the knob with her eyes directed at him. It was certainly an odd place for her to be, especially given she had an egg sac to guard and there was no reason for her to be up on a high place when she wasn’t the type of spider to build webs.

( _ Stay _ .)

Martin moved to gently pick up the spider and bring her back to the window, when the knocking started.

And then

( **_let us in_ ** )

* * *

It was far past dark when Eliot had a visitor. It had been hours since he’d moved from his spot, as while he didn’t sleep, he still had his period of rest to recoup his energy. The only moment of slight movement that could be deciphered was when a shadow eclipsed the lone light from Jon’s distant room window.

“I doubt he’s coming back, you know,” Elias spoke down to the arachnid, hand resting just below the web to drum his fingers idly. “The Mother is cunning and well-versed in Her skills, but even spiders are subject to parasites.”

Eliot did not move, but Elias knew he was Watching and Planning, just he Watched the spider. “Despite your efforts,” he continued, “let me confide in you that I believe you’re wasting your time. The Archivist has already been marked by Her and does not need Her intervention. So it leads me to ponder why you’re really here.”

Without hesitation, he plucked Eliot from his web by his bulbous abdomen, holding him up high to observe him and properly look him over. As was his nature, Eliot flailed his limbs, tapping his back legs against Elias’ fingers in a demand to be let down. “Mmm, not so fun when you’re the one losing your control,” Elias chuckled, amused. “Can’t take your own medicine, can you?” It was clear from Eliot’s twisting that he was trying to bite the larger agent. Fruitlessly, of course.

“Make no mistake,” the Watcher hummed, a jeer crossing his face. “The only reason you’re in our temple is because I allow you to be. I’m sure you know I’m not fond of your kind raising a Weaver here. Though I can’t say I’m not curious about having one raised under the Eye’s influence.” A grimace appeared as his grip on the spider tightened, no doubt making the sensitive nerves on the creature highly uncomfortable. “Perhaps it’s a piece of your plan. Just know that once Martin exits the picture, I won’t hesitate to crush you like the insect you are.”

It was then that he finally relented and placed the spider back onto his web. “Though, I don’t believe it’s me you need to worry about. Even I have heard The Archivist running around trying to crush your lot.” His voice lowered to a whisper. “From one Eli to another, I don’t think traumatizing the Archivist was a great way to get him on your side.”

Eliot’s only response was to sit back and wave his front legs up at Elias. 

“I’m going to take that as an offer of truce since I don’t know what that means,” Elias nodded. “Stay away from my office.”

With this final goodbye, he smugly turned to retreat to his place within the Institute, only to see Jon staring at him from the open door of his office.

They stared at one another silently until Jon finally cleared his throat.

“Elias.”

“Jon. I see you’re working late again. As per usual.”

“Indeed. Just closing the Herne case as you requested,” Jon confirmed, files forgotten in his hand as he stared at his boss unapologetically. “Were you… were you talking to Martin’s spider?”

Elias looked away, straightening his tie. “Ah… bluetooth call.”

“Down here in the Archives instead of in your office?”

“I did not want to be interrupted by Rosie.”

“Didn’t she go home five hours ago?”

“Indeed she did,” Elias confirmed, deciding to backtrack once more and try once again, putting his hands up in defeat. “Fine. You caught me. Yes, I was talking to the spider. I find talking to something an easy way to bounce ideas off and let my thoughts out. Not something I can really do inside of my office, you see. You should try it sometime.”

Jon finally seemed to understand, as his visage shifted to only disgust. “I’ll pass, thank you.” 

“Smart,” Elias agreed, his tone taking on one of joking amusement. “Cunning, conniving little creatures they are.”

Jon was unapologetic in saying, “If only Martin had gleaned any of that from them, he may actually be more than a nuisance.” He sighed, tired of the conversation. “Anyhow, I must get going. Good night, Elias.”

The Watcher let his Archivist disappear from view, a smirk gracing his lips. “Tricky little Archivist.”

* * *

_ Statement #0081212 of Christof Rudenko regarding his interactions with a first floor resident of Welbeck House, Wandsworth, 12/12/2008 _

( **_you’re only delaying the inevitable_ ** )

( **_we’ll find a way in_ ** )

( **_you can’t keep us out forever_ ** )

( **_let us in_ ** )

“She’ll leave,” Martin insisted, jabbing his fork into another slice of peach. A whole night without sleep was weighing on him, but he found that talking idly helped stave off the yawns and boredom. Sleep was near impossible with Jane’s incessant knocking. It was a reminder she was always there, her worms trying to get into his home. Thankfully he had stuffed each open crevice of the home with the fabric of his failed sewing attempts. “Eventually she’ll get tired and go… I don’t know, make a tunnel or something. Isn’t that what worms do?”

He looked to Poppy, who once again rested against the windowsill. It was one of the only times she was visible. The night before, when there was no artificial light to be had and the moon shrouded by clouds, Martin hardly moved out of risk of bumping into something. It was one of the only times where he wasn’t sitting against the door, instead preferring the sofa. He couldn’t stand the idea of not being able to see if one of those worms got in, inching closer in the darkness where he could not see. God forbid he fall asleep; he wouldn’t even be able to stop the creatures from finding him and exploring him, maybe crawling into his ears and burrowing into his brain.

Martin had to set the can down, covering his mouth. He truly loathed where his thoughts tended to wander, but he couldn’t really blame himself. Without his phone or TV, there was only so much he could do, especially late at night when he could barely see anything.

He shuffled on his knees over to the window, resting his chin on the sill as he looked at the egg sac. It was fairly large at this point, bulging with life that wriggled just underneath the silk. He was taken back to the day under his neighbor’s porch, where he had unknowingly found one so similar to what was before him. Now, however, he wasn’t so afraid of knowing what would come out. He wasn't like Carlos Vittery because he wasn’t afraid of spiders. He trusted them, as odd as it sounded.

“Not too long now,” Martin murmured. “The only thing worse than the boredom is knowing that I won’t have enough crickets for all of them when they hatch.”

Martin decided then to open the window, knowing it was best to place the sac on the outside sill of his second story flat so the spiderlings wouldn’t be trapped with him and starve. Once the window was wrenched open, he moved to gently dislodge the sac, only to be interrupted by a glint in the corner of his eye.

It was the familiar reflection of light one would see off of something wet or even slimey. He only had half a second to realize it was a worm before the thing leapt from the sill and towards his face. Martin stumbled back, but was saved when the worm was tacked mid-air by something smaller than even itself. Before even realizing what had just happened, he scrambled over to slam the window shut so no other worms could find their way in.

He soon came to realize his savior was none other than Poppy. Though the worm was three times her length, its squirming was halting when she bit into it and injected her venom into the parasite. Without hesitation, then, she began to snack on her prey, digging into its slimy body.

Martin brought a hand up to his mouth once more to keep down the bile. “Well. I suppose feeding you isn’t much of a worry.”

Poppy went in for another bite and Martin knew his appetite was ruined.

He looked to the window again, now noticing more worms piling up, slapping their moist bodies against the glass, wanting to be let into his flat (his home ( _ his safety  _ ( **_our nest_ ** ))).

( **_let us in_ ** )

Martin turned away, now far more aware of every open crevice in the small flat.

* * *

Sasha had just finished her report when she brought up the question. “So, lunch later on? Raymond’s Deli is having a special on Tuesdays.”

Tim, surprisingly, refused with a grimace. “Nah. Don’t have much of an appetite,” he admitted. 

“You? Not hungry?” Sasha’s brow shot to her hairline in amused bewilderment. “You’d do anything to put off thinking about work. Everything alright?”

Tim’s shrug was nonchalant, though it was clear he wasn’t happy with his own reluctance to eat. “It’s the last case.”

“Oof,” Sasha immediately responded with sympathy. “The meat one?”

“Oh yeah,” her coworker nodded. “Wasn’t too bothered by it all up until I passed by the boss’ place as he was reading the part about the meat on the walls.”

Sasha visibly shivered, jutting her tongue out in disgust. “Ew. That’s enough. I will not have you ruining my lunch, too.”

“Fair.” Tim decided not to try pushing the subject for the sake of a few giggles. He respected the subject of lunch too much to do that to Sasha. “Yeah, I think I’ll just hang around here, with the little man.” He thumped his chest and threw a peace sign over at Eliot. “I’ve got you, fam.”

Sasha’s smile was fond as she started packing her bookbag. “I’m sure he appreciates your company.”

“Doesn’t everyone?” Tim sniggered, leaning back in his chair to lazily toss his gaze at her. “How often do spiders need to eat, anyways? Jon said Martin was out a week, right? You think the little buddy will survive without being hand-fed?” He glanced back at Eliot. “Do you think he’s lonely without Martin? Can spiders even get lonely?”

Sasha gave the queries more thought than it really deserved. “Well Martin leaves him here over the weekend, so I don’t think he needs that much. But if you’re worried, why don’t you ask him yourself?”

Tim decided to do just that, sending off a message as Sasha was getting ready to head out for lunch. The reply was quick to come, and Sasha knew something was off as soon as Tim’s smile quirked into a confused grimace. She didn’t even need to ask as he soon showed the phone screen with an inquiry at the ready. “What do you make of this?”

Sasha slung her bag over her shoulder before taking a gander at the screen.

**marto martini**

_ 1:37 PM _

**gunpowder tim:** hey marto, feeling alright? miss your tea 

**gunpowder tim:** so does elliot need anything while youre gone? does he get lonely or something or need to be fed often?

**marto martini:** I’m fine, thank you! Just a little sick. I think I have a parasite or something :(

**marto martini:** Elliot doesn’t need much. Just food and water and plenty of pets. Walks are appreciated, too X)

Sasha blinked, reading it over one more time to make sense of the last message. Her expression no doubt matched Tim’s at the moment.

Tim brought the screen back to his own gaze. “He talks about Eliot like he’s a dog.” He let out a huff of laughter as he tried to bring a smile back to his lips. “I think it’s a joke I’m too thick to get just yet.”

Sasha wasn’t so sure, her frown ever present. “He also spelled his name wrong.”

“What do you mean?” Tim inquired, his eyes flicking to meet hers.

She shrugged some, digging in her memory bank of information she never thought she’d actually use. “Well usually we spell ‘Elliot’ with two Ls, but Martin said he named the spider after the poet T.S. Eliot, whose name only had one L. It would make sense that you would misspell it, but Martin is pretty serious about his poetry facts.”

Tim raised a brow, a sign he thought she may be looking a bit too deep into it, but it was clear he still had the idea up for consideration. “I still think it’s some sort of joke, but I’ll keep in contact.”

The other assistant gave a steady nod, the thought still bugging her mind. “Still, I’ll get Jon to message Martin as well. You know, so he knows we’re all looking out for him. See you in an hour, Tim.”

Somewhere along the path to Jon’s office, she hit the breaks, swinging her head to look back at Tim with an incredulous and yet still amused smile. “I didn’t know you were a Mechanisms fan.”

Tim jaw dropped slightly at being found out. “You listen to the Mechanisms?” The corners of his lips soon twitched upwards. “Oh ho, you’ve opened yourself up to a world of nagging. I’m not going to stop bugging you about this all night.”

“Joys,” Sasha nodded in her pit of regret. “I should have kept my mouth shut.”

A laugh from his lips was the last sound in the room before Tim was left in silence, looking at Eliot boredly. The spider looked back, mandibles twitching some with an unknown desire. Tim considered the little creature silently before getting up and walking to the breakroom. He soon returned with a crane fly he’d spotted in the corner earlier. He pushed the insect onto the web, quickly retracting his hand when Eliot sprung upon the creature and began to weave his webs around it. 

Tim was weirded out by it for sure, but he couldn’t help but smile at the sight. “We got you. Martin’s weird little friend is my weird little friend.”

* * *

_ Statement #0113005 of Father Edwin Burroughs regarding his claimed demonic possession, 30/05/2011 _

The boredom was certainly the worst part, but that didn’t make it the most traumatizing. 

As much as he liked spiders, they weren’t all that great for conversation. Shocking, he knows. He was hoping that tonight he would actually be able to get a bit of sleep instead of waiting out the night with only the knocking to keep him his consciousness afloat in a constant reminder that he wasn’t alone.

( **_let us in_ ** )

He wanted one last meal before he went to sleep, and it was only now that he realized just how many cans of peaches he had stocked up. Yes, he liked peaches, and he may have been just a  _ tad  _ excited when Poundland had that two-for-one sale on select cans of fruit, but it was now when he realized that he needed to rethink his spending habits. Especially when balancing a job he’s had to involuntarily take a week off of and a sick mother.

God, his mother. The first thing he would do when he was free of Prentiss for sure was check up on her. She must be worried sick, after all. ( **_Insolent surrogate._ ** )

Deciding on cupped noodles, he peeled off the wrapper and made sure to read the instructions, despite having done it hundreds of times in the past. One could never be too sure, after all.

He couldn’t exactly boil water with an electric stove when there was no power, so he settled with the hottest water possible from the faucet.

The faucet was happy to let out an outpouring of cold water initially, but just as it was beginning to turn warm, the stream slowed to a drizzle. Martin was understandably distraught. “Oh piss off…” he muttered hopelessly under his breath. “Oh please please work.”

He was hoping the complex hadn’t shut off the water for some odd reason; he needed it now before the darkness settled in, and with the clouds still hoarding the sky, he knew moonlight wouldn’t be around to help him.

In frustration, he gave the faucet a strike with his hand, and to his surprise, it did let out a gush of water before sputtering to a halt. Another experimental hit and he got the same result, only this time it was coupled with something jutting from its spout. It was red and clearly a torn piece of fabric. “How did this get lodged in the pipes?” He grabbed hold of the tuft, having to put in a real effort into pulling it out. 

To be honest, he would have rather spent the rest of the few days without water than to have to witness what he did next.

What gushed after the fabric’s removal was a slick, slimy ooze that was clearly once water, but took on a more sickly gray color. 

Along with it came worms. 

Dozens of worms. 

Writhing. Squirming. Digging. Infesting.

Martin could hardly process how hard he was clutching the red fabric as he stumbled back against his electric stove, unable to breathe as the pipes spat out it’s colony of slick little invertebrates. The clog finally came to an end and clean water once again filled the sink, leaving only the near hundred worms there trying to inch their way up the metal sides without success.

Any inkling of security faded as soon as his home ( _ his nest _ ) was invaded. How long had they been in there? How much water contaminated with their eggs had he drank without realizing? This time the thought truly got to him, and he vomited on the floor with little thought. He looked away, the only thing calming him down being that he didn’t see anything wriggling around in his sick.

With little hesitation, he grabbed a bottle of rubbing alcohol and a match. 

He would have sworn he could almost hear them scream as they bubbled and popped and burned in the sink. He couldn’t help the smile when the knocking halted for the first time in hours.

Despite that, he wondered if it was all even worth it. 

( **_let us in_ ** )

They would get in eventually. Should he really be torturing himself by trying to wait it all out?

* * *

“Umm…. Sasha? Are spiders supposed to look like this?”

Sasha had only just finished putting up her hair when Tim motioned her over. Yet another problem for almost-Head Archivist Sasha James to solve. 

“I need to move past that,” she muttered, already thinking back to some interviews she had lined up in the coming weeks. It was time to focus on the now. Coming over, she followed Tim’s gaze to see just what he was referring to. Immediately her face fell. “Oh no…”

It was here that Jon exited his office, spying them with ease. “Something so interesting with Martin’s desk that you can’t finish your work?” he snipped at them, and when he got no response, he went over there himself to investigate. He stopped once he saw what the matter was. “Oh.”

Eliot was on his back, legs up and bent in that way that indicated he was dead. The body was still, a fact that did not sit well with the three.

Tim was aghast, sheepish in his thoughts. “I mean… while Martin was gone, too. What are we going to tell the poor guy?”

Sasha could only shake her head. “He’s going to blame himself, no doubt. He’s already sick; he’s going to feel awful when he finds out.”

Jon was silent as he let the other two talk, considering the spider corpse in light disgust. There was something more, however. No matter how he felt about spiders, Jon wasn’t cruel enough to feel smug in the death of Martin’s little pet. He knew Martin would be devastated, and while he didn’t exactly think highly of the man, he also knew that Martin somehow didn’t hate him for it.

“Nothing much we can do but give Martin time to grieve,” he sighed, arms folded over his chest. His assistant looked over at him in subtle surprise.” I do suggest one of you messages him over it. I know you three are close so I trust you two know how to break it to him gently. If he wants to get another spider companion to replace this one, I’ll…” He let out a heavy sigh. “I suppose I’ll allow it. I’ll get a container to house the thing so Martin may bury or whatever he would prefer.” Jon promptly left the room, leaving the other two in silence. 

“Huh. Guess the guy does have a heart,” Tim mentioned once his superior was out of earshot. He looked to his own desk and grabbed a magazine to scoop the dead spider with. “If you ask me, I think Martin’s finally worming his way in.”

Sasha smirked, watching him fondly. “Maybe. It’s probably just his professionalism. Then again, I always did say that it’s impossible not to like Martin.”

Tim was about to sweep the spider into his palm when the corpse suddenly twitched. He paused. “Ummm… did you see that?”

“I… I think so?” Sasha agreed, not to sure of what she had seen either. She moved her hand closer to give the body a small nudge, and at the movement, something twitched within once more. “Is he still al—“

Both winced harshly when a thin appendage shot out of the spider’s thorax. Tim had to do everything in his power to not crush the sudden zombie spider. The leg soon retracted, only for the body to continue to stiffly twitch until yet another leg punched a hole in the abdomen. Sasha took her hand off her heart as she realized what was happening. “Oh. Oh! He’s not dead, he’s just molting!”

Indeed, Eliot’s playing dead was simply him in the process of removing his old exoskeleton, and now he was currently squeezing his freshly-skinned body out of the tight hole of his own flesh. 

“Oh!” Tim set down the magazine, unable to take his eyes off of the rather hypnotic display of a spider literally skinning itself. “I can’t tell if that’s better or worse than him just being dead.”

Someone shuffled into the room behind them and Tim looked to his boss with a grin, jerking a thumb to the surviving member of the archives. “Look at that, boss. Won’t have to deliver the bad news to Marto after all.”

Jon had brought a dust broom and a small plastic container when he came in. Brow arched, the archivist looked at the table to see just what Tim was talking about. As soon as he saw what looked like a spider performing a self-exorcism to get out of his own body, Jon dropped the broom and container then and there, turning and walking back to his office with a slam of the door.

Sasha gave an understanding nod to that. “Yeah, that was about as expected.”

* * *

_ Statement #0113005-B; a continuation of the statement of Father Edwin Burroughs, 30/05/2011 _

( **_let us in_ ** )

__ Martin hadn’t left his spot under the window in hours. Knees brought to his chest and tired eyes looked down at his own threads. There weren’t many, but he always tried to strengthen the ones he did have. His and Tim’s was fairly strong. He trusted Tim, and it felt right letting him into his web. Sasha was also one he was bonded with fairly well. His and Sasha’s threads twisted with one another, a fairly simple weave but one that would stand against the harsh wind. 

His hands were kept busy, feeling the damp and filthy red fabric in one hand, with the other on the needle he’d taken from the archives. He could only poke holes into the fabric mindlessly to keep himself distracted. With each knock on the door, a new hole was added to the collection. Hundreds of pierces dotted the cloth, and yet when a new knock sounded, there was somehow always room for another hole.

The one silken thread he couldn’t help but watch for hours on end was the one connected to his mother. Thin, weak, and hardly there, just as it had always been. He didn’t blame her, of course. She was sick, and not feeling well, mostly from a lack of trying on his part.

Did she miss him? Did she wonder where he was? He doubted it, honestly. He never had been good at taking care of her as he should.

He swallowed thickly, knowing that no matter how hard he tried, he could never make up for just how much he tried, he couldn’t erase his own faults. After all, he had gotten this job for her, and now look at him. He just couldn’t stick to what he was supposed to and meddled in things that only led to disaster. Jon had been right in calling him a useless arse. He was in a job he wasn’t even qualified for because he lied on his CV. Tim and Sasha wouldn’t have ever gotten into this situation.

( **_let us in_ ** )

It was tempting, really, just to open the door. It would all end then. Jane was so determined to starve him out, and it wasn’t like anyone was coming for him, anyhow. Tim and Sasha hadn’t bothered to come in and check up on him, and Lord knows Jon couldn’t care less if he never came back to the Institute.

He did feel a little bad, however. His passing would mean a lot of paperwork for Elias.

Finally, he looked to his thread with Jon. Weak, fragile, and thin, it wasn’t anything to really look at. It was hardly compex, any intricacies thrown out in favor of the simplicity of a work relationship and feelings not returned. And yet, it was still a few strands more than he’d seen initially. He didn’t know why, but it brought him a feeling of hope deep inside. He knew that no matter how much of a screw up he was at times, things could always get better.  _ He  _ could always get better. It was these thoughts that kept him from opening the door.

There was the slightest noise above him, one he recognized instantly despite all those passing years. It was a small crack, barely audible, but still there if one were to listen closely enough. 

Unlike when he was a child, he didn’t panic when he felt those tiny, curious legs skitter onto him. They scuttled across his skin, weaving in between locks of blonde hair and coming to stop on exposed flesh. They did not bite. They did not  _ invade  _ like the worms. No, they simply stayed there, leading Martin to wonder just what they wanted. 

They didn’t burrow. They didn’t need him like the worms needed Jane Prentiss. They stayed there because that’s what they wanted. He was where they felt comfortable and safe. 

He felt Poppy, given she was the biggest, gently find her place in his hair, sitting and resting as though it was her nest. 

Martin wasn’t alone. Tim and Sasha would miss him. Jon would feel guilty about sending him out on the case. Even if he wasn’t the best to his mother, he knew that things could always get better if he kept working at it.

Martin wasn’t alone.

* * *

“ _ End recording. _ ”

Jon clicked the recorder off, setting it aside and slumping against his seat with an exhausted sigh. The statements were really taking a lot out of him, but he was getting better as time went on. No doubt it was because he was recording on such an old piece of equipment that he could feel the professionalism being sucked out of him.

Taking a moment, Jon pulled out his phone, looking over the messages he’d gotten as of late. 

Georgie, of course, always messaged him his daily small talk for the both of them to complain about their day and the occasional glamor shot of The Admiral. Never requested, but always appreciated.

He noticed a new message from Martin.

‘ _ Won’t be coming in tomorrow. Think I got a parasite. Sorry! _ ’

Jon could only let out a huff of frustration. The peace of not having Martin around was now being outweighed by the inconvenience of not having a third assistant to help with things. His work may not have been as thorough as his peers’, but he was a good organizer and wasn’t the type to slack, unlike Tim and, occasionally, Sasha. 

Tapping the text box, he wrote out his reply.

‘ _ I understand. Keep me updated. _ ’

His thumb hovered over the send button, hesitating for a moment, before his fingers typed out ‘ _ Do rest up and get well soon _ ’ and hitting that send key. 

Setting his phone aside, he went about filing away Burrough’s statement in its proper place. Finished, but still a bit restless, he left the filing cabinet, moving to the small cot that flanked the recording room. He did plan on going home for the night, of course, but didn’t feel right without doing a tad bit extra work in tidying up the place he spent an embarrassing number of nights. It wasn’t like anyone else slept in there, but those who didn’t clean their spaces, in his opinion, usually displayed an avoidance of basic responsibilities. Take the dozens of wrappers in Tim’s drawers, for example.

Fixing the blankets and throwing away any bits of trash, he made quick work of the room. It wasn’t until he had adjusted the last of it that he finally looked up to the ceiling (he didn’t know what compelled him to ( **_most don’t watch the ceiling unless they expect to see something_ ** )), only to notice what lay in the corner. 

It was Eliot. He knew it was Eliot, as he recognized the eye pattern on its hideously fat abdomen. He had overheard Martin during the Robert Montauk case tell his peers that no two designs were alike; like human fingerprints, each one was unique. Just because it was Martin’s spider didn’t make it any less unpleasant to see him. If anything, it only worsened his mood, as it meant he couldn’t kill the bloody thing lest he cause Martin to have a breakdown.

“Vermin,” he muttered despite knowing that a spider couldn’t comprehend his words. He couldn’t help but think back to Elias speaking to the spider; “bouncing ideas”, as he called it. There really was no one else to see, was there? 

“What about you has Martin so in a tiff over your kind?” he sneered. “You’re an insect. You can’t feel pain or process emotions like we can. Hell, you don’t even sleep. I wouldn’t think a soft man like Martin would want something that can’t love him back.”

( _ Ironic, coming from you. _ )

“Nonetheless. Martin will retrieve you when he gets back,” he said quite firmly, as if giving a reprimand. “ _ If  _ he comes back. I wouldn’t be surprised if the twit was dying of a spider bite at the moment.”

Jon found a bite of remorse on his tongue after that comment, a frown gracing his lips.

_ Well I just think that if you’re so afraid of spiders that it’s making you this daft, maybe you should hand the case off to someone more fit to be Head Archivist! _

Jon grimaced, looking away. “I’m not afraid of spiders. I just…” He didn’t know who he was trying to convince.

Daft. Never in all his life would Jon have expected Martin to speak to him like that. It was… a bit of a shock to his mindset, if he were to be honest.

He gazed up at Eliot, arms folded over his chest in an attempt to ground himself. “Have I been letting my feelings cloud my judgement? I’d like to think not, but I’m professional enough to say that Martin may have been right. About the case, of course.” He let out a steady exhale, shoulders beginning to sag. “About me.” He hated the thought of failing to uphold his own position, but he was able to find it within himself to accept that he was flawed, both in how he handled the case, and how he treated Martin afterwards. He would admit that he had been unjustly harsh. More so than that. He had dissuaded a man from doing his job.

“I think a sit down between Martin and I would be best,” he announced to the spider, feeling foolish as he did so. “Hopefully that will clear some things up. Look at me, after all. I’m talking to spiders now.”

Although Eliot was simply in the corner of the room, facing him, Jon couldn’t help but get the feeling that it was staring at him. Fondly, if he was being quite absurd, but staring nonetheless. “I’ll leave you to your web weaving. Don’t expect to find any bugs in here, mind you.”

Jon left, leaving the door open this time in hopes that the spider would simply crawl back to his home and not bother the human again. 

Eliot watched him leave, resting his feet for some time before beginning to weave another web.

* * *

_ Statement #0022010 of Moira Kelly regarding the disappearance of her son Robert _

( **_let us in_ ** )

Martin was ducked behind the door, knees to his chest in the utter darkness. The sun had yet to rise and the worms were still wiggling their way in somehow, searching for the warmth of his flesh. 

(Please, leave me alone.)

Each worm that got in was quickly devoured by some of the many spiders that huddled close to him, not allowing him to be taken just yet. Martin was scared. He was confused. Most of all, he was just tired, and he wanted it all to stop.

( **_let us in_ ** )

How easy it would be to just open the door. 

(I’m begging you.)

Another knock sounded, one that nearly broke his will right then and there. He could feel the tears starting to bubble up once more. He just wanted her and the worms to go away. 

Why was it now of all times that he was actually wanted?

( **_you’re so warm, Martin_ ** )

He was going to open that door, but not until she was gone. 

(Go away.)

No matter how tempting it was, Martin wouldn’t give in. He was going to see Tim and Sasha again, and he was going to see his mother and let her know that no matter what, he never gave up on her. He was going to go to work, continue his job until he was found out and subsequently fired, and then he was going to get back up again and keep working, and by god, he was going to get Jon to like him and Martin would confess his feelings. Yes, it may be a long shot, but honestly, after nearly being eaten by worms, he felt he could do anything because god knows what else could happen the next day.

( **_they’ve abandoned you_ ** )

His hand tightened around the red hole-punched fabric in his hand, determination bubbling up in his core. No matter what his intrusive thoughts may tell him, he knew his friends worried about him. He  _ would  _ see them again, no matter what.

(Shut up.)

He felt something within him. 

( **_but you won’t ever be alone again_ ** )

Hundreds— no, thousands of little insects trying to squirm their way into his nest. It filled him with a sense of anger. They had no right to be here. 

(NO.)

He gripped the fabric until his knuckles went white, his breathing shallow as he imagined himself grabbing those thousands of threads.

( **_let us in_ ** )

There was a firm yank.

(I SAID GO AWAY!)

The knocking went away. Jane was gone, and it wouldn’t be until hours later that Martin would realize that she wasn’t coming back.

He opened the door. A few worms jumped and latched onto his clothes, trying to burrow their way in, but other than that, the front door was no longer blocked. He did not hesitate in booking it to the institute.

* * *

_ Statement #0161203 of Martin Blackwood regarding the failed attempt to take him away from his Mother _

Jon was just about to open the door to show Martin to the cot when the recording room’s door slammed open.

“Marto!” Tim cried, giving a wave and a grin for a full half a second before he realized the state Martin was in. “Christ— what happened to you?”

“Long story short,” Jon sighed brusquely, running a hand through neatly-kept hair, “Martin had an unfortunate encounter with Jane Prentiss and according to him, had been trapped for a full two weeks without any way to contact us. We were going to inform you and Sasha, but Martin was insistent on giving a statement first—.”

Sasha nearly hurled herself into the room at this, gawking in shock and trotting over to give Martin a hug. “God, I  _ knew  _ something was wrong!” She pulled away, looking up at him with relief in its purest form. “I knew I should have visited to check up, but—!”

“Whoa whoa,” Tim cut in, shaking his head. “No blaming. We’re just glad you’re okay, Martin.”

Martin was breathless from all the attention at once, a confused, yet relieved smile sprawling onto his face. “You… you are?”

Sasha almost looked offended that he would even suggest that they weren’t glad. “Of course!” she cried. “You’re a part of the team. You’re our friend! We missed you the whole time you were gone.” She patted his arm, as if putting his doubts to rest on the spot. She did put them to rest, in fact, and Martin found himself happy to be where he was. “Now. Is there anything you need?”

Martin thought about denying the offer on instinct, but then realized that he had just been through two weeks of being trapped in Hell. He had every right to be at least a little entitled. “Ah, a glass of water? No— tea. Tea is better.”

His friend gave him the thumbs up, going to prepare his tea and leaving the three men in the recording room. Tim seemed to have been struck by a thought just then. “Wait. Does this mean I’ve been messaging a worm lady this entire time? Because that is the most disturbing thing I’ve heard of in years.”

Martin and Jon instinctively cringed at the same time at the idea. “At least you get to share in my nightmares, eh, Tim?” Martin could only joke weakly. Tim chuckled in response, about to give a sly retort when his brow flew to his hairline upon resting his eyes on Martin. He only let out a droning “uhhhhhh” as he pointed his finger at Martin’s face uneasily. It was only then that Martin could feel that familiar crawling of eight curious legs step carefully down his cheek. “Poppy!” he beamed, lifting his hand up just under his eye to make a platform for Poppy to climb onto. Once away from his face, he looked down at her with relief. Martin’s exhaustion and lack of sleep had caused his guard to be practically nonexistent, leading to an interaction he normally wouldn’t have dared have in front of normal people. “I didn’t realize you were still in my hair. Come along for the ride, did you? Still trying to protect me?” He looked up at his two coworkers. “Tim, Jon, this is Poppy. She, uh… she kept me company during all this time.” He looked between the two speechless men, before clearing his throat. “I, um, I need some sleep.”

Tim seemed to take this in stride, thankfully. He shrugged, grinning down at the spider. “Hey, Poppy. I’m Tim. Welcome aboard.”

The head archivist looked as though he wanted to oppose the presence of another spider, but held his tongue. Jon could only grimace, opening the door to the cot and motioning Martin inside. “Well I’m sure you’ll be glad to know that since your unfortunate ‘sick leave’, your spider has found its home in the cot.” He gestured up to the corner, where Eliot had made a rather beautiful and intricate web. 

“Eliot,” Martin greeted, flanking a sigh of gratitude that the spider was still alive. “So good to see you. And wow, if that isn’t a lovely web. Is that for me? I love it.”

Jon cleared his throat, breaking up the reunion momentarily. “Well, before I leave you to get some  _ much needed  _ rest, I had one more inquiry.” Martin’s head canted to let Jon know he was listening, and so he continued by pointing down at his assistant’s other hand. “What is that? You’ve been holding onto it this entire time.”

Martin only then seemed to realize his other hand was still clenching the red fabric he had pulled from the faucet of his sink. “Oh. This.” His thoughts turned to the needle that was in his pocket and how he had pushed it through the fabric to make so many holes, and it was in remembering this that he finally processed what the cloth was after all this time. 

“It’s…” Martin looked up at Jon, unsure of what to even think about this new bit of information. “It’s a piece of Jane’s dress.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tim: So, wait, do you only have like a piece of her dress ripped off? Or is there now a worm lady walking around London without any clothes on?
> 
> Martin: I hate that I can’t answer that question for sure.
> 
> Jon: Is there anyone here that’s remotely normal?


	7. Thicker Threads to Ignore the Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin is trying to deal with living in the Archives. Things are getting hectic and it feels as though crescendo is building, but despite it all, Martin finds the time to bond with his friends.

_ Statement #8163103 of Albrecht von Closen regarding a discovered tomb near his estate in the Black Forest, 31/03/1816 _

Martin’s forefinger hesitated on the bright green button on the screen. Was he scared? Perhaps just a little. Over the last few days, his mother had been more than cross with him for not visiting after work to help care for her, as she should have. He let her know as much with a few strongly-worded voicemails. He wasn’t around to help her like a good son should and was having more than a hard time confronting it. Shaking away his own tension, he pressed the button and tucked the phone under his ear, listening to it ring. 

It wasn’t like he could actually tell her what was going on. In the end, the excuse he had given was that he had lost his phone (technically not a lie) and had soon gotten a new one (hence the week-long absence), and now he had come down with a sickness and was staying at home for her sake. He wanted to visit her, he really did, but he feared that he would only lead the worms to her location. After all, over the past week of Martin staying in the archives, those little silver buggers had begun wiggling their way into the institute. If he ended up leading them to his mother, he wouldn’t be able to forgive himself.

(A tragedy ( _ a blessing _ ))

On the third ring, he was sent straight to voicemail. He frowned at this, a bit disappointed he couldn’t hear her voice again. She must be busy, of course, as his call had been declined, so he decided to be respectful and leave a voicemail. “Hey mum!” he greeted the answering machine. “I just wanted to call and check in and see how you’re doing. Call me back sometime when you’re not busy. Love you!”

He was sure he would hear from her later that evening (( _ he would not _ )), and if not, there was always tomorrow (( _ what a nasty tangle in our web that would be _ )). He didn’t want to be a bother, but hearing his mother’s voice would have been very helpful in distracting him from the fact that he had literally walked in on Jon whilst not wearing any pants.

( _ That actually wasn’t planned, believe it or not _ )

Martin was admittedly very thankful that Jon hadn’t said anything to his peers or Elias about him walking in on his boss without trousers, a very large surprise indeed. He hadn’t gotten that call from HR asking him to “please wear trousers in the workplace”, which was both a relief and a little odd. Jon usually wasn’t all that easy on him when it came to misconduct, and while Martin wasn’t nude or anything (a comfy and snug sweater and a pair of boxers), one would think it would warrant at least a mention to his superior. Was this leniency stemming from Martin’s previous plight? Undoubtedly, but Martin’s thoughts kept wandering back to how Jon looked at him in those moments. 

When Jon had glanced over at him in momentary surprise, there wasn’t that quick head turn of embarrassment one would usually expect. There was no initial jeer of disgust at Martin’s large frame or eyes scanning him over in judgement. Martin knew for sure that if Tim walked into the workplace without a shirt, his face would be red and he would be stammering and unable to make basic eye contact with the smaller man. Yet, Jon didn’t make him feel uncomfortable; it was almost as if this was just another office mistake for him. An employee wandering around the workplace without pants? Happens all the time. A slap on the wrist is all that was needed and it was back to work.

Martin was more than a little embarrassed that he kept thinking back to Jon’s rather indifferent response to seeing his employee’s horrifically pale legs. It wasn’t that big of a deal. A simple mistake. But it stuck with him.

Now properly clothed, he got up from the shabby bed, noticing that it was nearly time for a nice cup of tea. He felt Poppy shift slightly on his head, but he wasn’t bothered. She had decided that his hair would make a decent nest to hide from predators, and no matter how much he tried to remove her, she wasn’t changing her mind.

( _ She will leave when it is time _ )

Once in the breakroom, Martin removed the mugs from the cabinet and got things ready for a nice tea time. It was as he was heating the water that Tim walked in, humming and getting on his toes to look over Martin’s shoulder and resting his chin there obnoxiously and watching the kettle. “Tea time already? What have I done to deserve such a blessed gift?”

Martin rolled his eyes and shrugged him off to grab the tea bags. “Well, for one, you are my friend.” He ignored how Tim grabbed at his own chest to feign a heart attack. “Second, you also fed Eliot while I was gone. Which was really nice of you.”

Tim waved him off, going to sit at one of the tables as they conversed. “Hey, it’s what I’m here for. Little guy nearly gave me a spook later on, though. He started molting all of the sudden and I legit thought I’d killed him. Top ten anime spooks of 2016, let me tell you that.”

Martin paused upon hearing this, looking over at him oddly. “Molting? Are you sure?”

(How odd ( _ he helped you shed your layer _ ))

“Man was literally crawling out of his own skin,” Tim shrugged. “If that’s not molting, I really don’t care to know what it was. Why?” 

Martin pursed his lips, mulling the fact over. “Weird,” was all he said, deciding to just leave it at the unpredictable nature of spiders he had grown to know and accept. “Eliot is a fully grown adult. They usually stop molting by then.”

( _ Your molting will be beautiful _ ( **_Mother will be so proud_ ** ))

Tim wasn’t bothered by this, instead using it as an opportunity to spout another quip. “I don’t blame him. It’s been real dry down here. I’ve been getting really ashy lately. It’s probably just natural for him.” 

Martin’s mood quickly soured at this. “Geeze, you’re telling me. It’s so hard to groom yourself when you’re stuck at the institute all day. I’ve been having to take quick trips to the gym nearby every so often to use their shower. I try to keep it real brief, of course.”

“Afraid of a few worms getting past all those big strong men?” Tim quirked a brow.

“Partly,” Martin replied honestly, dipping the tea bag into the kettle. “I’m also just not comfortable in the locker rooms. Everyone is so… big and buff and I’m just… soft.”

Tim barked out a laugh. “Hey, not a bad thing in the slightest, Marto.”

“Martin? May I speak to you for a moment? Alone?” came Jon’s voice from the doorway.

To say that Martin was immediately anxious was an understatement. Nothing good ever came out of someone asking to speak with you alone. If it was Jon doing the speaking, this wasn’t about to end well. Tim certainly wasn’t helping by giving him that apologetic smile. Even still, he put on a brave face. “Sure thing! Just give me a moment to get the tea set. Wouldn’t want it to oversteep.”

Jon nodded and as soon as he disappeared behind the door, Martin slumped and let out a quiet groan. “What did I do this time?”

“Not sure,” Tim shrugged, watching Martin fill the mugs with the appropriate contents. “It could be anything with him. Good luck, though. May your weird spider friends bring you good fortune.” Martin wasn’t going to tell him that Poppy was still just chilling in his hair, simply giving a “thanks, Tim” as he handed his and Sasha’s mug over. He decided to bring his own mug to the meeting with Jon, as well as his boss’. Hopefully that would relieve some tension.

Martin let out an exhale as he stopped at the door, steeling himself for the confrontation. Carefully balancing the mugs, he opened the door, greeting his superior with a smile.

Jon looked as though he had been waiting for him, not even feigning doing work as Martin walked in. “You’ve made tea early today,” he noted, watching his assistant bring in the mugs and set them down carefully. Out of instinct, he scooted his chair back a tad just in case of another incident. 

“Stressful day, honestly. I needed it. Nightmares and such.” Not a lie, really. Prentiss was a staple of his dreams by now, and how her worms writhing and wriggling, wanting to invade his body all the while wanting him to 

( **_let us in_ ** )

Martin paused, looking to the walls in slight confusion. He was alert, but didn’t quite know why. Jon asked him if everything was alright. “Yeah, everything’s fine… I just, I dunno, weird feelings, I guess.” He brushed the experience off and setting down the tea.

“I see…” Jon merely hummed, pushing his mug to the side with a forefinger. “Well, I wanted to speak to you about something that happened before your Prentiss encounter.”

Martin was quite surprised by this revelation. That was weeks prior, and in fact, he strained to think of what he may have done wrong.

( **_Well I just think that if you’re so afraid of spiders that it’s making you this daft, maybe you should hand the case off to someone more fit to be Head Archivist!_ ** )

A bit of him shrank back when he realized what Jon was talking about, and he could tell his boss now saw they were on the same page. He swallowed his anxiety, knowing he was going to have to face it eventually. “I understand…” he said, the confidence in his voice now faded to near mute. “What I said back then…”

“Yes,” Jon confirmed with a grimace at the memory. “I had wanted to talk to you about it when you got back from your, ahm, ‘sickness’, but after the whole Jane Prentiss thing that plagues us, it slipped my mind until now.”

( _ Isn’t he cute when he lies?  _ ( **_like a scared fly_ ** ))

Martin didn’t hold back the puff of breath he let out. Of course Jon wouldn’t miss an opportunity to leave a fault unchecked. “I see…” was all he could say, letting Jon take the reins from here.

Sims nodded, hands folded on the table. “I wanted to apologize.”

Martin blinked. Once, twince, three times for good measure. “Come again?”

Jon’s look was pained at having to repeat himself. “I said I apologize.” He steadied his breathing, looking almost as uncomfortable as when Martin had shouted those words to him. “I understand now that I have been letting my feelings over certain subjects cloud my judgement over work-related matters. While it was not fun having my assistant yell at me, I will admit that it was the shock I needed to reevaluate my priorities. You wanted to look further into a case, one that you out of all of us would be best at examining, and I had forbidden you from your job to further the scholarly research I take pride in working for.” He seemed to be more confident in his words now, as if a weight had been lifted. “I apologize if you feel as though I have mistreated you in any way, and please, do speak up if I may be acting out similarly in the future.” 

Martin found it hard to find the words. His heart skipped a beat, feeling the thread between them thicken by another strand. This one twirled around the rest, not quite weaving, but adding one small intricacy to their thin link. There it was, that care and empathy that he had known was in there somewhere. 

“It’s…” Martin couldn’t help his chuckle. “It’s… actually really good to hear that. I think I needed that, honestly. Thank you.”

Jon, for once, returned the smile. It was true and genuine and showed a fragment of what he was like behind that cover of professionalism. 

It was all soon gone, of course, as Jon cleared his throat and got back to his firm tone that everyone was familiar with. “Of course, this is not giving you permission to yell at me again.”

(The fact that Jon thought the experience was somehow cathartic to Martin showed he had so much more to learn (( **_it was cathartic to me_ ** )))

“Of course,” Martin nodded, taking up his tea. “Is there anything else you need before I get back to work?”

Jon did likewise, taking the time to take a sip, one that Martin recognized as trying the savor the first taste and bask in how it warmed him. “No no, that is all,” he told him, and with that, Martin left, a grin on his face so large that he hardly cared to address the few strands of web that had begun to weave themselves around Jon’s eyes.

* * *

_ Statement #0051701 of Leanne Denikin regarding an antique calliope organ she possessed briefly in August of 2004, 17/01/2005 _

It was around noon that Sasha had decided to poll Martin on an important question. Face scrunched in concentration, he tapped his pen on his desk to bide his time as he thought it over.

“It’s not a hard question,” Sasha laughed, flipping through a stack of files in her hand absentmindedly as she slowly spun in her swivel chair. “Is it cal-ee-ope or cal-ai-ope?”

Martin couldn’t decide, dropping his pen in befuddlement. “How am I supposed to know?” he complained. “I don’t think I’ve ever said the word before in my life. Ummm…” At random, he went with his gut. “I’m not sure— I think cal-ai-ope sounds like it’d be more correct. Sounds smarter, if it makes sense.”

“It makes no sense whatsoever but I’ll take your word for it.”

Martin squeaked when a slap was abruptly placed on his back, soon tossing an annoyed glare to Tim. “Talking about proper pronunciations? Spooky stuff,” Tim grinned at them, taking a nice sip from his “Ask Me About Kayaking” mug. “What’s it this time? Was someone haunted by the spirit of a grammar teacher?”

“Mmm, very scary indeed. Nah. Nothing too special.” Sasha handed him the file so he could take a look for himself. “Calliope. Unsolved murder. Some odd circus music. Clown dolls.”

It was then that Martin noticed something odd. Tim tensed then, in a way that was just enough to be noticeable to him. His body was stiff, the thread around his throat pulled taut. His eyes searched the file in whole kilometers a minute, growing unnaturally silent. Then, as soon as it had appeared, it was gone.

(What was that ( _that was a poor doll_ _scared of his maker_ ))

Tim gave a chuckle as he shut the folder, casually passing it to Martin. “Sounds a bit too weird for my taste.” He gestured to the stairs. “If you need help, Marto, I was researching something like this last year, I think. The library has a section dedicated to circuses and freak shows, if you’d believe it. You’d might find a thing or two there.”

Martin took a moment to comprehend the change of pace, blinking at Tim before looking down at the file in his hands. “Oh, um, alright. I’ll check it out. Thanks, Tim.” Some silence passed, and when Martin looked back up at his peers, he realized that both were looking at him expectantly. “Oh! Oh you mean right now! Um— ahhh —alright. Can do. I’ll just pop on by.” He knew when he wasn’t wanted around, quickly and awkwardly trekking up the stairs without much argument. He didn’t mind it much, in all honesty. Whatever had just happened was obviously a thing between Tim and Sasha that he didn’t need to be a part of unless they wanted to include him. He figured Tim had a thing with clowns that he was embarrassed about. Everyone had their fears, and Martin wasn’t one to judge or hold it against him.

He took a bit longer at the library than necessary, but it was mostly to give Tim and Sasha time to talk if that’s what they needed. Thankfully, he actually found a bit of information pertaining to their case, something he would be pleased to show Jon.

An hour or so had passed before he’d made it back down to the archives. By that time, Tim and Sasha were back at their desks, each working silently. Martin noticed Tim had removed his suit coat at some point, something he understood quite well. His mother got heated at him pretty often, and this was always followed by complaints of stuffiness. 

Nothing a little tea couldn’t resolve. As he was making the mugs, he made sure to add a little bit more sugar than normal to Tim’s tea; the extra little dopamine would certainly help just a tad.

He brought Tim his mug, relieved to see the man’s face brighten at the gift. 

“Thank you, Martin,” he sighed, he said, sipping his tea. 

“Everything alright, Tim?” Martin asked gingerly, his tone making it clear that he wouldn’t intrude if his friend didn’t want him to. 

Tim just grimaced and shrugged. “This job just gets to me sometimes.” His tone was more somber, that playfulness that was once ever present now gone. He took another sip. “It’s… sad, you know. You get desensitized to people dying because we can usually count it as fake but… I dunno. I just don’t like the thought of getting your jaw ripped off and people don’t even get the courtesy of knowing whose to blame. Guy who died in this case was real. He was somebody’s son. Somebody’s brother, maybe.” 

Martin was rather surprised by Tim's willingness to share his rather personal thoughts. He could tell that whatever Tim was on about, it affected him in a personal way. He could certainly relate, however. To just die and have no one understand or know about how you died? He couldn’t imagine his mother’s pain ( _ or lack thereof  _ ( **_bitch_ ** )).

Tim let out a tired exhale, setting his mug down. “Sorry to dampen the mood, Marto. Just venting, I guess. Thanks for the tea.”

Martin offered a soft smile. “No problem, Tim.” He decided to shift the topic, wanting to bring it to a less upsetting subject. “What happened to your coat? Surely you’ve got to be cold. We’re in a basement in winter, you know?”

The topic certainly worked in distracting Tim, as he looked down at his arms in subtle surprise, as if somehow not realizing his jacket had somehow disintegrated off of his body. “Huh. Where did I put it?” He checked the back of his chair and under his desk, brow furrowed in mild concentration; it was a concern, but not one that was great enough for him to leave the comfort of the swivel chair. “I remember taking it off, but can’t for the life of me remember where I put it.”

( **_Good fabric_ ** )

Martin noticed Tim’s lack of enthusiasm to leave his seat. “Aaaand you’re not going to go look for it?”

“Well, you see, the problem with that is I’m lazy. I might go look for it when I’m bored and have nothing to do and have already done a couple of runs through my Youtube playlist of seals slapping their fat bellies.” Like that, Tim was back on the ball, flashing a grin (there he is ( _ savor it _ )). “Until then? Can’t be arsed. Do keep an eye out for it, though.”

Martin could only roll his eyes as he went to go deliver the mug to Sasha. “Sure. Though I can’t guarantee I’ll be arsed to bring it back if I see it.”

He went back to his desk and took a seat, checking his new phone. No calls yet. Not a surprise; his mother usually didn’t take calls from unknown numbers, despite him having left her a voicemail. So he shot her a text, knowing that he’d hear from her soon.

( _ Still so much to learn _ )

* * *

_ Statement #0151904 of Mark Bilham regarding events culminating in his visit to Hither Green Chapel, 19/04/2015 _

Martin studied the screen, making sure his analysis was correct before making any bold decisions to face Jon with this information. He was right, unfortunately; an incident at the chapel of Hither Green Chapel (it being the chorus of screams heard) coincided with Gertrude’s death. He wouldn’t lie, it was a little spooky, but he doubted it was much more than a coincidence. Jon would brush it off, no doubt. Even still, he still needed to keep proving his worth to the team, and so he printed the police report out as he waited for his tea to steep. It was while he was pouring the tea that Sasha walked in with the intent of grabbing her lunch. “So, what do you think it was?” she asked him, unaware of her own vagueness.

“Care to elaborate?” he requested, a bit of a snarkish smile lifting his lips.

Sasha could only toss her eyes. “The religious nut. What do you think it was?” She unwrapped her granola bar and took a good bite, waiting until she was done chewing before speaking. Clearly she was superior to Tim in this manner. “I bet it on a cult, but Tim thinks it’s more late-stage schizophrenia.” 

Martin pursed his lips, thinking it over. “Not sure. Might have to agree with Tim on this one. Then again, I’ve never been one for religion, so I wouldn’t know how cults work. I just know they’re bad and worship some weird stuff.”

Sasha snorted at this, sitting at one of the break tables and taking a bite of her sandwich. “I mean, yeah, that’s the gist of it. Your mom didn’t bring you to church?” she asked after swallowing. “She seems like she would be the religious type.”

Martin could only shrug as he added the appropriate amount of sugar and milk to each mug. “She used to when I was little,” he said simply. “She stopped bringing me when I got older, though.” It was always something about church being a “personal experience” for her and that he could go in his own time if he wanted. But he didn’t mention that ( _ because he knows _ ). “Not sure why. So I took up the prayer of a nice cuppa and a good book.”

This got another snort out of Sasha, who quickly swallowed her food to get a word in. “The one true religion, of course,” she agreed, successfully drawing out a giggle from him. “My mother used to bring me to church all the time.” She watched with a smile as Martin set down her mug. “I sort of grew out of it, but I always liked the prayer.”

“Yeah?”

“Mmhmm. Something about meditating, silently speaking your thoughts to someone who will listen. Always gave me a good night’s rest. Nowadays I’ve just picked up meditation.”

Martin would be lying if he said he didn’t give the thought some serious consideration. “Sounds interesting, honestly.”

“I suggest you try meditating a bit,” Sasha suggested, taking a slow sip of her tea. “After everything that’s… you know, happened, I think you could really use it.”

(It was honestly a tempting offer ( _ won’t you pray with us _ ))

“Making tea early again?” Sasha noted, taking her sip. “Stressful day?”

“No. Good day, actually,” Martin confessed. He set down the tray and grabbed the printed papers, stuffing them in a folder containing a printed copy of the statement. “I just think Jon will need the tea while reading this. Part my research of the case coincides with the disappearance of Gertrude Robinson. You know how he’s been a bit… off when it comes to Gertrude’s death.”

“I would, too, honestly,” Sasha shrugged, setting down her tea to finish her lunch. “I’ve met her. Never seemed like the type to just up and leave.”

“On one hand,” Martin said, placing the folder on the tray and lifting it up, “I want him to shrug it off. On the other hand… I don’t want my work to go to waste.” Sasha nodded understandingly. “Anyhow, see you in a bit, Sasha.”

* * *

( _ Won’t you pray with us _ )

Martin settled in for the night with a cup of tea and some fabric that Sasha had given him. It was an old blanket that she had stored away after the winter chill had started to fade. She didn’t quite understand what he would make out of it, but was happy to give away something that she was going to toss out anyway. Jon had gone home (for sure this time ( _ an Archivist’s work is never done _ )) and so Martin could make something in peace. In some ways, creating was his own sort of meditation; a way to connect with his inner self and express those pieces that one could not gleen from the outside. While poetry was still his main gig, he still wanted to try sewing. 

Martin had outlined fragments where he could twist the fabric into a nice pullover for those cold nights when he wanted to sleep. He took his own measurements, of course, keeping them in consideration.

He took a sip of tea and got comfortable before beginning to cut away the appropriate pieces. Once he was done, the upholstery needle came out.

He had a good feeling about this time, knowing in his heart that he was going to succeed in making something wondrous. And if not, he was going to at least try, and that was all that mattered, really.

( _ Such a promising weaver _ )

He threaded the needle and lined up the fabric, punched the first hole, and yanked the string into place.

Immediately the threat broke at the slightest bit of tension. 

( _ That’s the wrong thread, dear _ )

Martin stared at the broken string in a mix of confusion and growing frustration. “I… I don’t understand.”

( _ That’s the wrong fabric, dear _ )

He didn’t bother to try again. He tossed his things to the side. “I’ll just get a sewing machine,” he muttered under his breath, slumping into bed and shutting off the lamp.

( _ You will learn soon enough _ )

( _ You will weave such beautiful webs, spiderling _ )

* * *

_ Statement #0160204 of Martin’s nestmate, Sasha, regarding a series of paranormal sightings, 02/04/2016 _

Martin nearly jumped out of his own skin when he heard the door to the Archives slam open. Paranoia hijacked his brain just then. Prentiss was here. Prentiss was here and she was going to finish the job. He needed to find a weapon. He wasn’t going to be trapped again.

It wasn’t until he heard Sasha’s voice that all his paranoid energy was transferred exclusively to worry.

“Tim? Martin? Jon?” Sasha nearly stumbled down the stairs trying to run in, short of breath and looking as though she had been through a rollercoaster of emotions. Tim practically burst out of Jon’s office, followed by a slower but still concerned Archivist. 

Martin knew— he just  _ knew  _ that Jon was about to say “you’re late”, and before he could even utter the words, Martin gave him  _ that  _ look, telling him that now was not the time. Jon shut his mouth, going over to see what the problem was.

“Sasha!” Tim was the first by her side. “What happened? Are you hurt?”

“No no, I’m fine,” Sasha tried to shrug him off. “I’ve just… God, Jon, do I have a statement for you.”

Jon realized the gravity of Sasha’s words and quickly had her sit down. “What happened? Was it Prentiss?” It was then that he saw the hole in her shoulder. “Dear lord, you’re bleeding? Were you shot?”

“Honestly?” Sasha sighed, happy to have somewhere to sit after what she had just experienced. “I would have rather been shot.”

At the mention of a wound, Martin was quick to grab the first-aid kit. “I have experience in treating wounds,” he told Sasha, remembering those times his mother’s sickness got the best of her and she had fallen and injured herself. Why she persisted in doing things herself was beyond him, but that wasn’t what mattered now. “Just take off your shirt, please, and I can— wait, ummmm, you don’t have to or anything if you don’t want to.”

Sasha let out a weak laugh. “Don’t worry, Martin. I’m wearing a tank top underneath,” she told him. “My dignity and virtue will be spared.”

“Tell us what happened,” Jon urged. “Do you think we may be in any more danger?”

Sasha then began to regale them with what had happened, taking off her sweater to allow Martin to take a look. The sweater was most definitely ruined, what with the streak of blood in the shoulder area and the giant hole where  _ something  _ had  _ wormed  _ its way in. Martin was listening intently as Sasha told her story, already getting the disinfectant out and soaking a cotton ball with it, as well as getting out bandages. “Alright, I’m not going to lie, this will sting,” he warned her. As Sasha stilled, preparing herself for the pain, Martin finally got a good look at the wound.

Webs. All of them, woven within the hole within her arm. He could feel them even if he didn’t see them. They knitted her flesh in complex patterns that spiraled and conjoined, but that wasn’t possible. He couldn’t comprehend how they twirled and stitched and yet left themselves in a pattern he could not understand. Just trying to wrap his head around the picture left him with a  _ spiralling  _ **_writhing_ ** feeling in his stomach. And it was  _ inside  _ his friend.

(They’ve infested Sasha ( _ your friend _ ( **_our nestmate_ ** )))

He covered his mouth with a hand, trying to stifle a wave of nausea that threatened to overcome him. White noise filled his ears. 

( **_How dare they touch her_ ** )

( **_She is ours_ ** )

By now, all talking had ceased as the concern was now put on Martin. Jon raised his brow. “Something wrong, Martin?”

( **_let us in_ ** )

Martin knew that if he spoke, he would vomit. Instead, he just set down his things, and ran to the bathroom.

Martin was in there for about an hour, slumped against the toilet. He would try to get up every now and then, but at the thought of those worms  _ entering  _ his dear friend’s body and all its spiralling incomprehension, the nausea would brew back in his stomach. Another part of it was because he was ashamed to have reacted in such a way. He was strange. He was weird. Everyone before his friends knew it, and so did they.

The door to the bathroom opened slowly. Speak of the devil. From the click of solid soles on dress shoes, Martin knew it was Jon. Not even the threat of termination could get Tim to wear anything other than sneakers.

Jon stood in the doorframe of the stall. “Martin?”

Said assistant mumbled something to attest to the fact that he was listening.

“What happened back there?” Jon pressed, the firmness there but with none of the scolding bite behind it.

Martin considered lying. The idea that he had a bad reaction to blood was an easy one. Perhaps the hole of a burrowed worm was too much for him. In some sense, it was. The idea that this  _ thing  _ invaded his friend. It brought him back to those nightmares and the two weeks of torment he went through where he had been too scared to even get a short rest in fear of those things finding their way in and burrowing into his flesh and in his ears, under his eyes and down his throat until he couldn’t breathe and

( **_let us in_ ** )

The wave of nausea abated when Martin pressed a hand to his mouth. He was not going to vomit in front of his boss. But the threads that laced Sasha’s wound were strikingly similar to those that invaded Prentiss’ throat and ears and every open orifice in her body, natural or not. They connected without reason and without sense and yet inhabited her body as if the web were somehow connecting her muscle.

( **_Disgusting_ ** )

( **_They do not belong in our nest_ ** )

Instead, Martin remained mum.

Jon took a step closer, arms folded tightly against his chest. “Is there… something we need to talk about?” he inquired softly, and this time, it wasn’t some sort of intimidating demand. There was very little pressure put upon Martin. “It doesn’t have to be a statement.”

(Should he actually tell ( _ go ahead _ ))

Martin spent another thirty seconds in silence, before he simply nodded. “Yeah,” he said weakly, “but… not today. I can’t.”

“Then when?”

“I don’t know.” Martin looked up at Jon sheepishly. “But I’m not ready yet.”

Jon’s expression was hardly readable. If one were to guess, it could only be a mix of uncertainty and stern apprehension. It was clear he wanted to press, that eagerness to know

( _ To Know _ )

quite prominent in his features. Thankfully, however, he backed off with a simple hum and a nod. “I understand,” he said, even if he didn’t understand a bit. “Take your time… but even still, I would like you back in the workplace. You may speak to me whenever you’re ready.”

The steps faded and the door closed quietly, leaving Martin to his lonesome. A call suddenly came from his phone, his pocket buzzing and ringing obnoxiously with a call. It could really only be one person. He sighed with relief and answered it. He needed to hear his mother’s voice again. He didn’t even look at the ID before answering. “Mum!” he smiled, slumping against the wall of the stall. “It’s so good to—“

“ _ Hi! We are calling about your car’s extended warranty— _ “

He had never ended a call faster in his life. That was  _ not  _ what he wanted to hear at the moment, thank you. He didn’t even own a car. Hopelessly, he checked his texts. It said that his message had been read, but there was still no reply. He wanted to be surprised, but his mother was always busy. She shouldn’t have to be bothered by him so much.

(He loved his mother ( _ just the wrong one _ ))

Martin stayed in that spot for another thirty minutes before he finally left. He could hear Sasha and Jon making the statement inside the recording room, where the cot was in the back. Tim wasn’t at his desk, nor could he be seen around. No doubt he needed to clear his head. His thread with Sasha was intricate and strong; Tim cared for his best friend more than most realized. Martin didn’t look too long, however. He wasn’t in the mood to look at the web any longer.

He walked to the breakroom to prepare some tea for everyone, but as he did so, something in the bin caught his eye.

It was Sasha's sweater. While cheap and a bit gaudy in Martin’s unprofessional, non-seamster experience, it had been one of her favorites. Now ruined by torn fabrics and blood, it was woefully tossed away. 

Martin’s fingers twitched, something inside urging him to reach in and grab it just as he had done with Jon’s sweater vest. It was an itch in his brain that goaded him to go and take it and hide it in his room and… he didn’t know what would come next. 

( _ Take it _ )

( _ Take it and make something wondrous _ )

Martin looked at the article for a moment longer before he left it to go make tea.

He was tired, he was confused, and he felt stressed. His hands were shaky as he swallowed down his own frustration. He needed to take his mind off of everything. Off of Prentiss, off of the webs, and off of the fact that he can’t even go home anymore because he was living in fear. He needed a distraction.

* * *

_ Statement #0032408 of Paul McKenzie regarding repeated nocturnal intrusions into his home, 24/08/2003 _

“How about drinks?” Tim suggested off the cuff.

(Bingo)

“Drinks?” Sasha asked, perhaps a little too quickly. “What about drinks?” Martin’s fingers halted on the keys, craning his neck away from the monitor to give Tim a look of consideration.

Tim shrugged, pushing his keyboard away so he could properly lean on the desktop. “I think I can speak for the squad when I say we’re all a little stressed. Hell, I walked into Martin’s cot and I’m pretty sure I saw the spiders slumping around.”

“Tim, you’re not getting my spiders drunk,” Martin shut down, feigning seriousness and stifling a smile.

Tim flashed a grin, his thoughts derailing some. “Not what I was going to say, but I like your thinking.” He then tented his fingers in the way only Elias did when he was being ultra creepy, putting on a professional tone. “I think I will make the executive decision to take the squad out for drinks tomorrow after six. It’s a Friday then, after all. It is mandatory. No overtime.”

“Oh,” Martin said, dropping his head in faux disappointment. “Well, I may have to call in sick if there’s no overtime.”

Sasha wasn’t having it, giving him a hopeful look. “I think the real overtime is the friends we made along the way.”

All three devolved into stifled chuckles; they didn’t want the boss to think they were having too much fun and start an investigation of his own. Martin thought over the offer as he lazily scrolled through another article from the distant year of 2003. He wasn’t a big drinker, that much he knew. He didn’t drink on his own, and certainly not around his mother, but he found social drinking to be quite fun when he had the chance to participate. Despite this, a drink was just what he needed. He knew this and was firm in his decision. “Sounds fun,” he agreed. “Tomorrow, right? At six?” There was a pause as his eyes shifted to look towards Jon’s office door for a fleeting moment. “Just us three?”

Sasha was already onboard before Tim’s question was even posed, but couldn’t help the funny look she gave Martin at his. “Yeah, just us. Who else?”

Realization struck his coworkers’ faces, and in unison they all turned their heads to look back at the office of the Archivist. “ _ No… _ ” Tim laughed, disbelieving. Martin’s face was skyrocketing to scarlet. Tim just snickered, waving away Martin’s embarrassment. “Hey hey, I’ve always wanted to see what the boss is like drunk. I bet he’s a lightweight. Oooh, I bet he gives long rants about mildly interesting topics that no one cares about.”

Martin looked away, smiling fondly through light embarrassment. “Come on, Tim…”

“I’m not making fun of you!” his peer chuckled, chin perched on his palm. “Listen, if you can get Jonathan ‘Buzzkill’ Sims to join us for drinks, I’ll pay for all your booze. Scout’s honor.”

Sasha quirked a brow. “You were a scout?”

“Nah. I just like the phrase.”

Free booze? Tempting offer, but it wouldn’t quite compare to the feeling of having Jon join them. And it wasn’t because Martin was seriously gay for Jon— he swears it; he genuinely felt as though Jon had been loosening up just the slightest. It would be nice, really, to know Jon more as a person and hopefully ease tensions and the perception that Jon is just diet Elias with half the creep factor. Martin considered the offer for a moment more before he left his desk. 

He took in a steady breath, stopping in front of his superior’s door. It was just a simple offer; Jon shouldn’t have any reason to look down on him for it. He knocks softly, opening the door at the firm “come in.” Jon looks up from his work, impassive. “Martin,” he greeted stiffly as his assistant poked his head in. “Is there something you need?”

“Ah, not really,” Martin started, wanting to let it be known that it wasn’t urgent in any way. “Well, the past week has been really stressful for all of us, so Tim was suggesting we go out for drinks tomorrow night.”

Jon’s brow furrowed, as if having never heard of the idea of social drinking in his life. He set down his pen, not taking his eyes off of Martin. “Good for you, I suppose. And?”

The assistant blinked back his surprise. Even if Martin hadn’t blatantly proposed an offer, he thought that the “we” would hint to their boss that he could come. Jon, apparently, was not a part of the “we”, despite working in these archives with the three for months. An oddly sad and sympathetic feeling overcame him in that moment. God if only Jon was open to hugs, he would lift his boss’ smaller frame up with a squeeze to tell him that people cared about him and Martin valued his company. 

(Alright, let’s save the cuddling fantasies for private time ( _ make him feel it  _ ( **_Pull his strings_ ** )))

Martin cleared his throat, not letting his downturned feelings show. “Well, we were wondering if you’d like to join us.” He ignored how Jon’s expression turned flat nonplussed in a second. “I’m sure you’ve been shouldering a lot of the stress. I just thought it would be nice for you to join us outside of work. Unwind a bit, you know.”

Jon takes a moment to process Martin’s words, and to his credit, he hides his surprise well by burying himself in his work, keeping his eyes trained on something other than Martin.

( _ He has so much to learn before he’s ripe _ )

“Thank you for the offer,” he said in that same firm, impassive tone, “but I will have to refuse. I fear it’s far too unprofessional to engage with my employees in such a manner. I appreciate the thought, though.”

Martin was silent for a moment, unsure why he was surprised by the refusal (he was disappointed ( _ don’t be afraid to Pull _ )). He doubted Jon was a social drinker anyhow, with the few threads he had. “Right. Back to work it is then.” He closed the door behind him, walking back to his desk with a disaffirming shake of his head to his coworkers. “He’s not interested.”

Tim could only shrug. “Hey, at least you tried. That’s more than I could say, but you were asking a brick wall out for drinks.” Martin could only roll his eyes, a grin tugging at his lips as he caught Tim leaning over to Sasha with poorly hushed whispers. “Thank God. I don’t think my wallet could have handled it if he had said yes.”

( _ Don’t worry, Tim, just give it a day _ )

* * *

_ Statement #9720406 of Melanie King regarding events at the abandoned Cambridge Military Hospital during filming in 2015, 17/04/2016 _

“DREAMING. SERIOUSLY? I BRING ACTUAL EVIDENCE AND NAMES AND TESTIMONY, AND YOU ACCUSE ME OF  _ DREAMING _ ?”

“THIRTY MINUTES OF A PITCH BLACK HALLWAY DOES NOT COUNT AS ‘EVIDENCE’ MISS KING.”

“AND YOU CALL YOURSELVES SCHOLARS? WHAT A JOKE!”

“WELL  _ I’M SORRY  _ THAT YOUR PETTY LITTLE  _ YOUTUBE CHANNEL  _ DOESN’T QUITE MEET THE STANDARDS OF OUR RESPECTABLE INSTITUTE!”

“PETTY? WE HAVE FIVE MILLION SUBSCRIBERS!”

“OH? WELL  _ FORGIVE ME _ , THEN, I HAD NO IDEA!”

By 5:15 pm, all work in the main office room of the archives had ceased. Martin had to physically roll his swivel chair over to Tim and Sasha to join them in staring at the door to the recording room, where the argument had reached a crescendo. The finishing phrase of “statement ends” had been said a good two minutes beforehand, but it seemed as though the Archivist and the statement-giver had a few more words to exchange.

“That’s Melanie King,” Sasha said aloud to herself just then, as if it only just registered in her brain even though the woman had signed in an hour beforehand. “Our boss is having a shouting match with Melanie King, one of the hosts of Ghost Hunt: UK.”

“AKA,” Tim added, a disbelieving grin on Tim’s face, “Jon has finally met his match. I never thought I’d see the day.”

Martin would have felt guilty about not working had he not finished up his report ten minutes ago. Sympathy would have been thrown Jon’s way, in all honesty, had he not made the last statement-giver cry. Martin found this to be some odd form of karma, in a way. 

No one deserved to be yelled at like this.

_ But. _

It may have been just the  _ tiniest  _ bit cathartic to see Jon meet someone just as hard-headed and stubborn.

Without warning, the door to the recording room flew open, with Miss King storming out of the archives and up the stairs about how the Archivist was a “pompous ass”. 

(True, Jon is a bit of a pompous ass ( **_he also has a nice one as well_ ** ))

Everyone has mere seconds to get back to their desks and pretend as though they’re doing legitimate work, and yet they manage it just before Jon pokes his head out of the room, looking over at them with an annoyed and critical gaze. Jon no doubt knew that they knew, what with how loud they were, but his assistants made it known this was a case of “if he doesn’t mention it, don’t bring it up”. He watched for a second longer before stiffly walking to his office, muttering something under his breath and shutting the door behind him a bit harder than intended.

Martin knew he had to turn in his work, but there wasn’t a chance in Hell that he was going to walk up to Jon now. Not when Jon had found someone he dislikes  _ more  _ than Martin and is still soured by it. No, he waited a good fifteen minutes to let his boss cool off before taking the work and giving the door a gentle knock. When given permission, he entered, only to find Jon stewing in his own tainted mood. He was writing his own experience with Melanie, and he pressed the pen to paper as though he were trying to drive the utensil through the desk. 

Martin hardly complained when he placed the report on his desk without so much as a glance from Jon. “Here’s my follow up with the Paul McKenzie case,” he informed softly, spinning on his heel to quickly get out of there.

“Martin.”

The assistant mouthed a couple of profanities before looking back at his boss with a tentative smile. “Yes?”

Instead of that intense, scathing look he was accustomed to, he was greeted by a Jon who seemed, now in proper view, tired. Jon brushed back a few strands of hair in order to properly rub at sleepless eyes with the heels of his hands. Finally combing his hair back with his hand, he looked to Martin. “Is… is the offer for drinks still available?”

Martin stared a little longer than necessary, refraining from blurting out “is this a trick question?” But Jon seemed serious, and the look of stress-induced fatigue was something Martin recognized well. He would see it in the mirror when he was unable to sleep through the nightmares that plagued him in the past weeks. A smile tugged at his lips. “Of course. We’re leaving around six; taking the tube, of course.”

Jon considered this for a few moments before giving a slow nod to this. “Expect me to join you,” he said, the professional tone making it sound as though this was going to be a board meeting and not getting wasted with friends. “No promises, however.”

Martin could barely contain his grin. “We’d be happy to have you.” 

Once he shut the door, he sauntered past Tim and gave him a little nudge to the arm. “Guess who owes me drinks tonight?” 

Tim had to take a moment to process this before he slowly tilted his head back and let out a loud groan. “The  _ one  _ time he decides to loosen up.” His gaze turned sheepish towards Martin. “You’re a lightweight, right?”

“Tim,” Sasha laughed, reaching over to lay a hand on his. “Martin is an absolute unit. It’s time to accept your fate.”

Tim looked devastated for his bank account.

* * *

Once Poppy was placed on the wall, Martin shrugged on a warm jacket. “Going out. Don’t wait up or anything,” Martin told them, as if they’d understand. Poppy scuttled onto the box of stashed CO2 canisters as Eliot stayed in his web, perfectly content as usual. It seemed that he had been working quite a bit, as there were now two webs in the cot for some odd reason. Martin liked to imagine that the spider just wanted a change of perspective sometimes. Poppy tried to jump back onto the safety of Martin once more, but he wasn’t having it. “I’m putting my foot down this time. There’s no way you won’t be crushed.” 

He left the room, keeping the light on despite it. Although spiders were nocturnal and were equipped with eight eyes, they actually couldn’t see all that well in the dark. Plus, it wasn’t his electric bill, so keeping the lights on was Elias’ problem at this point.

Entering the main office, he saw the three closing up shop and getting ready to go. Tim was already leaning by the exit, looking at his phone and no doubt checking how much money he would be able to spare. Sasha had already put her things safely away, as had Jon, who wasn’t exactly looking excited, but when did he ever? He only wore a long-sleeve dress shirt for a top, something that concerned Martin a tad. “It’s going to be cold tonight,” he casually told his boss. “You sure you don’t want a jacket? I have a spare.”

Jon’s answer was swift and unambiguous. “I’ll be fine, thank you.” He made sure he had all his things before going to stand by Tim to signal that he was ready.

“Just so you know,” Sasha announced, taking a moment to fix her hair with the aid of a compact mirror, “I do consider this a special night between friends, so expect a  _ lot  _ of pictures to be sent your guys’ way.”

Jon feigned a smile, though it disappeared in a matter of seconds. His mouth muscles probably got tired from smiling for the first time in years.

The tube ride was short. Tim told of a great place he knew where they could grab a booth, have a few snacks, and down a couple of drinks. Once arrived, Jon already looked out of his element, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he took a gander around. “A bit loud,” was his complaint, but it was ignored. Tim and Sasha were determined to have a nice night.

Jon and Martin both sat by the wall across from each other, Sasha sitting by her boss with Tim bunking with the big guy. Martin ordered a serving of chips and dip for the group, which Tim adamantly denied that he was paying for. Martin knew as such, and told Tim that he could calm his tits because the less experienced assistant could shuck out the six quid for it. All got a few light drinks to get a buzz going before the conversations really started.

“So, I see this worm, right?” Tim had just ordered another drink, telling the table the tale of a worm he saw in the yard before his flat. “Big silver thing, right? I can see it shining in the grass from a mile away.”

“Scary,” Martin could only comment, still on his first drink of the night.

“Yeah, it was big. Like two to three inches.”

“Oh good lord,” Jon muttered, nursing his first glass and getting oddly interested in the story. “You crushed it, didn’t you?”

“Oh yeah,” Tim nodded, quickly thanking the waitress for his drink. “Stomped on it hard.” He took a sip. “Turns out it was a nail.”

Everyone at the table shuddered on reflex, cringing at the mere thought of stepping on a nail with such force. “I am honestly surprised you didn’t call in that day,” Jon grimaced. “I would have let you off.” His expression turned serious. “You’ve gotten your tetanus shot recently, right?” Tim counted his fingers, trying to figure out how many years it had been, before he gave up.

“It wasn’t that bad, actually,” Tim told the group, trying to wave away the cringe. “It was lying sideways, but I did accidentally tip up a bit. Went through my shoe gave my heel a good scratch—“

Sasha held a hand up, unable to take anymore. “No. No no no, I don’t want to hear anymore. That actually makes me want to die. I would legitimately rather be dead.”

“Same.”

“Same.”

Jon hesitated with his answer. “Dying rather than stepping on a nail?” He scoffed, finally finishing his drink. “Rather overdramatic if you ask me. Now if it was  _ two  _ nails,  _ then  _ we have something a bit more reasonable.”

The table had a good laugh at this, with Sasha looking at Jon with surprised eyes. “Really? A joke from Jonathan Sims? I had no idea you had a sense of humor.”

Jon had yet to order another drink, but Martin found it appropriate to get himself a martini. “I believe that professionalism is the key to a great number of things,” Jon told the three, “but I’m not  _ dead _ .”

Another laugh was shared, but Tim was quick to shut it down. “You’re one to talk about professionalism. Let’s talk about what happened today.”

Jon pinched the bridge of his nose with a groan and must have decided that he was too sober for this. He looked at Martin’s bright drink and somehow went a step further by getting a tequila sunrise, no doubt the fruitiest drink any of them had ever seen. Once he was nursing it, the conversation started back up.

“I had no idea you could yell at someone like that,” Martin had to mention. “That was… that was something else.”

“You went feral there,” Sasha laughed, bringing her drink to her lips.

Jon sipped his drink, and given his light weight and small stature as undoubtedly the scrawniest of the squad, there was no doubt that he was beginning to become a tad tipsy, as shown by how he was loosening up. “Melanie King. Never heard of her and yet she comes in as if she’s the be-all-end-all of paranormal phenomena and the esoteric.”

“Hmm,” Tim murmured into his glass. “Sounds like someone we know.”

Jon scoffed, in denial over Tim’s comment. “She came here with zero proof.”

“With all due respect,” Martin budded in. “We had a case where a man was found wrapped up in spider webs to the point of opaqueness, and yet you, without missing a  _ beat _ , brushed it off as natural causes—“

“Well— that’s different, Martin—“

“So  _ I  _ took it upon myself to break into an apartment complex—“

“I see where you’re going with this—“

“—where I discovered Jane Bloody Prentiss—“

“Fine, I  _ may  _ have judged a little too quickly—“

“—and got trapped in my flat for  _ two  _ (count ‘em)  _ two weeks _ !”

“ _ FIIIIIINE  _ you’ve proven your point,” Jon complained, giving Martin an annoyed glare from having lost the battle. “If Melanie and I have one sole thing in common, we both may be a bit strong-headed.” Tim brought his drink to his mouth to avoid auto-correcting him. “I honestly can’t believe Georgie stomachs her company. I could never.”

Sasha perked up and quickly brought the drink away from her lips. “Georgie Barker? Joooon, I didn’t know you listened to podcasts! Especially not What the Ghost! It’s one of my favorites.”

“I do  _ not  _ listen to podcasts,” Jon denied. “What the Ghost is an occasional exception. We both had an interest in the paranormal before I started at the institute, and while she may not be the most well-informed, I do tune in occasionally to hear her opinions.”

“You talk like you’re friends,” Tim noted, already halfway through his second drink.

“We are,” Jon said casually, as if being friends with the host of one of the most popular podcasts in the UK was no big deal. “In fact…” He took a rather long sip to delay a rather bad memory. “We used to date.”

Martin had to pay a bit more attention to his own drink as he felt his heart sink to his stomach.

Sasha nearly slammed her drink down, her brow to her hairline. “Bull. Shit! You two are  _ complete  _ opposites!”

“Pics or it didn’t happen,” Tim stated bluntly. “I need as much proof as you require for the statements.”

Jon casually brought out his phone, flicking through a few things before showing off a photo on his phone. It was him and a young ginger woman who held up the phone high to take a selfie of both of them on the couch. Jon looked as though he had been caught in the middle of reading the book in his lap and gave a small smile to the camera. In Georgie’s lap was a white cat that they recognized as “The Admiral” from the photo on Jon’s desk. 

As Tim and Sasha gawked and teased Jon, Martin kept to himself and his drink. It had never actually occurred to Martin until right at this moment that his hopeless crush and feelings may be going towards a straight man. It would be just his luck, really. Jon looked happy in the photo in a way that Martin hadn’t seen before. At ease, one leg crossed over the other with one hand petting the cat. It ached, really. Martin saw the picture and it reaffirmed that Jon was deep down someone who smiled often and, when he was around someone he was comfortable with, was content with his surroundings. Martin wanted to be that for him. He wanted to be able to let Jon know that he was safe and could be himself. Now, he didn’t know if there was even a chance it could happen. 

Martin ordered another drink, knowing he would need it.

* * *

No one expected for Jon to get the most plastered, but by God, it wasn’t going to stop Tim from trying. By the time they’d stumbled out of the pub, Tim was trying to convince everyone that four-seated tandem bikes where God’s greatest invention and now that they had brought Jon into the squad’s fold, they should invest in one for whenever they go out again.

Sasha was the second most sober, the other being Martin, and she had a few words to quell Tim’s stellar ideas. “Tim that’s the lamest idea I’ve ever heard.”

Tim blew a raspberry, crossing his arms as walked their way down to the tube. “Um, you mis-said ‘brilliant’,  _ Sash _ .”

“Tim, we’re not getting a tandem bike,” Martin giggled, helping to keep the drunk standing as Sasha found this the right time to take a picture. Jon was silently listening, now so drunk that he pretty much shut up entirely.

Tim wasn’t having it. “I don’t need yo negativi-titty.”

“My— my what?” Martin just tossed his eyes, looking at Sasha. “I can take Jon home if you want.”

Sasha looked understandably hesitant about it. “Ahm, no, I can do it. I know his address,” she offered. “Why don’t you take Tim instead.”

Jon, who hadn’t said a word in the past half-hour, suddenly spoke up. “No no, I want Martin to take me home,” he slurred with insistence. “I trust him!”

Sasha and Martin were equally surprised, but to Hell was Martin going to complain. “Oh…” Sasha blinked, now shuffling in her purse to find something to write on. “Um, okay! That’s fine, I’ll just take Tim home.” She quickly wrote down their boss’ address and handed it to Martin. “Make sure he gets home safe, alright?”

“Oh, of course!” Martin grinned, vibrating in excitement. “He’ll be fine, I promise.”

With that, they went their separate ways. Martin helped Jon along, being sure to steady him if he ever stumbled. Martin made small talk, letting Jon know that he was glad that he could come and that he had a good time. Even when they were sitting down on the subway, Martin continued with his gratitude. Here he could lather on the praise and compliments because he knew that Jon wasn’t sober enough to shut him down and tell him to get back to work. Jon probably wouldn’t remember most of it, but if he even remembered a sliver, he wanted him to at least know that he was appreciated despite all the teasing and jokes. 

( _ Very good, Martin. Strengthen the web _ )

“I feel like we needed this,” Martin smiled to Jon. “I know it’s not exactly professional to go drinking with your assistants, but I hope you could join us some more sometime. You were nice to talk to outside of work.” 

There was a beat where Jon smiled up at Martin, before his expression was crossed with regret. “Please don’t tell Elias,” he muttered without any lead in.

Martin twisted at his wrists a little in worry, a frown gracing his lips. “Of course, that’s a given.”

His boss muttered a word of gratitude. “He’s been…” He tried to think of an eloquent word to explain how he felt about Elias. “...really weird. Weirder than usual, y’know?”

Martin thought back to when Elias dangled Eliot in front of him, as if threatening his subordinate with harming the spider. It immediately left a bad taste in his mouth. “How so?” he asked.

“‘Fter Sasha gave her statement, he… came in n’ started talking ‘bout how proud he was about my progress, like he was my father. Went on n’ on n’ on ‘bout how I was— how I was ‘coming along nicely’... as if I was a cake in the oven.”

That… now that was weird. Martin didn’t respond for a moment, mostly because he just didn’t know how to. Martin hated how Elias looked at him and had always found him to be a bit creepy, but this was on another level. Who tells another human being that they’re “coming along nicely”? “That’s… that's really strange,” was all he could say. 

Jon leaned back in his seat, hand covering his eyes to block out the bright light. “Yuh. He left so fast I didn’ get the chance to thank him for th’ ten minutes of time he wasted that I’ll never get back.”

Martin had to slap a hand over his mouth. That was definitely a rehearsed line, but he loved it. It was a relief that Jon was as ambivalent about the head of the institute as the rest of the staff.

As they spoke, he noticed how Jon was shivering lightly, muttering to himself as he kept his arms folded and close. Martin felt a “told you so” opportunity coming on, but decided to pass it up. He shrugged off his coat and offered it to Jon, who looked at Martin as if he had two heads. “Here you go.”

“What? No— no, I’m fine.”

“I insist.” 

Jon stared at the jacket a moment longer before deciding that it was no use to fight Martin on this. “Thank you…” he murmured, his voice barely a whisper as he pulled it on. “You’re… you’re honestly too kind.”

Martin could only smile, knowing that he had done the right thing.

Soon enough Jon recognized his stop and Martin led him out and to his complex. Once they were at his door, Jon fumbled with his keys for a solid minute before stumbling his way in. Martin got to see Jon’s place for the first time, and it was easy to say that he was quite the minimalist. Free of clutter and without any decor. Nice and simple. He was a little surprised he didn’t see any signs of a cat, though. 

Jon set his keys in a bowl and faced Martin as he hung on the door. “Thank you, Martin,” he mumbled. “See you tomorrow.”

“You mean Monday?” The other corrected. “Wait… please don’t tell me you work on the weekends.”

“Ahhh Monday. Thanks,” was the last thing Jon muttered before unceremoniously shutting the door. 

Martin felt a bright spot in his soul, observing how the thread between them had only grown stronger. Not intricate in the slightest, but a few strands did twirl around the silk. 

( _ Very good. Reel him in, darling _ )

( _ Bask under their gaze _ )

He watched the door for a brief moment more before heading back to the institute

It was just before he crashed onto the bed, ready for a light hangover the next morning, when he received a few messages from Sasha. They were all pictures of them hanging out, and it was actually quite a nice sight. They all seemed to be having fun in some way or another. One of his favorite pictures is of Jon mid-rant about having to constantly bitch to Elias about getting more CO2 canisters. 

He thanked Sasha for the pictures, and was just about to pass out when he got a video from her. He looked at it with bleary eyes, soon having to rub at them just to comprehend what he was looking at.

The video was of Martin nursing his drink and blathering on about haikus and how they’re an underappreciated form of poetry. Tim was cracking jokes the entire time, but during the entire forty second clip, Jon was silent. Instead, he leaned on the table, arms folded as he watched Martin talk and nodding every so often. There was a small smile on his lips and he looked at Martin as though he were the only thing in his world worth paying attention to.

* * *

_ ( _ **_let us in_ ** )

He whimpered in fear as he clambered up the stairs, hearing them close behind him. Martin was hardly six, but he was lucky he could move fast enough to make it to the flat. “Mum! Mum!” he cried, scared out of his wits when he felt a worm touch his ankle. He soon made it to the door, slamming it shut behind him and reaching up on his toes to double lock it before a worm could get in.

He sniffled at the pain, having scraped his knee when riding a bike before they came to him. The worms, they scared him more than anything.

( **_let us in_ ** )

_ “Martin? Is that you?” _

Martin gasped in relief upon hearing his mother’s voice, knowing that she would protect him. She loved him, after all. “Mum! You’re okay!” he cried in relief, rushing over to the kitchen.

His mother stopped her cooking to look at him with loving eyes and a worried gait.  _ “What happened? What’s wrong?” _

The boy could barely catch his breath, so thankful that his mum was safe and that the worms hadn’t gotten to her. “Worms— gahhh, worms! Th-they’re trying to get to me!”

His mother looked at him with sympathy in all of her eyes, kneeling and having him sit down.  _ “Oh honey, did you get hurt?” _

Martin sniffed and wiped away a few tears, letting out a whimper and a nod. “I— I fell off my bike. They tried to hurt me!”

_ “Shh, baby,”  _ she comforted him,  _ “let me kiss it and make it all better.”  _ Her hand brushed across his scraped knee, a motion that covered the surface wound with a patch of silken webs.

Martin smiled, already feeling better from her love. “Thank you, mummy.” He closed his eyes and enjoyed the feeling of her mandibles kissing his head.

( **_let us in_ ** )

Martin looked to the door, eyes wide with fear. “The worms are still out there!” he proclaimed, the both of them coming to a stand. “They’re gonna hurt us!”

His mother shook her head, gently petting his head and bringing him close so he could hug her around the skirt.  _ “Shhh, my spiderling, they won’t hurt you. I won’t let them,”  _ she promised, all of her arms wrapping around him.  _ “You’re safe with me. We love you.” _

Martin turned his gaze away from the door and buried his face into her skirt, nodding silently as he basked in her comfort. He was safe and he was loved, and that was all he’s ever wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Martin: I want to see my real mum.
> 
> Mother: (ರ⌓ರ)
> 
> Martin: I said my REAL mum.
> 
> Mother: /╲/\╭(ರರ⌓ರರ)╮/\╱\
> 
> Martin: Yay. Love you, mum.


End file.
